When the heat of Summer sends the sweet smell of Pink Clover into the air, I remember my paternal Grandfather.
Grandpa was a dreamer of dreams, a storyteller, a journalist. Looking back, I see us walking the field of Pink Clover behind our house; his big hand holding mine as he wove magical stories about fairies and elves living in the grasses and hillocks we walked through.
The smoke from his cigarette wafted through the evening air like the stories he told. And the little girl loved this man who took the place of her father who never came.
We walked and walked, and then we walked some more; not wanting the precious moments to end, when we would have to return to the reality of home where Gran would be cross because we stayed out until almost dark, and chastised the Grandfather for putting tall tales and fairy tales into my impressionable mind.
Grandpa would just laugh and toss me into the air, and then we would settle down into the comfy old couch where the tall tales, fairy tales and sometimes really scarey tales would be spun out once more, while the smell of Pink Clover lingered in our clothes.
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He did not live to see me grown, but when the sweet smell of Pink Clover fills the air, once again I see us. Walking and walking and then walking some more while magical stories of fairies and elves drift above us.
