Simple Times
I often like to think about the simpler times, even though I live in an age of “simpler times” in their own right, balancing on the horizon of adulthood. I think back on all those summers spent down south, kneading spongy dough with Granddad, grimacing at the texture of the flour, stuffing my nose into the soft belly of the bread and inhaling the scent of yeast when it was finally baked through. The cicadas roared unapologetically from their hidden roosts in the sycamore trees; the crickets sang me to sleep. In the mornings, I would sit beneath the mantle of dangling stained-glass ornaments and hand-made kettles to peer out the window at the bird feeders. A morning dove would whistle her tune from atop the feeder to the left while a few bluejays squabbled, a cardinal feasted, perhaps even a goldfinch—the objectively best bird—would pay a visit. I would complain over a bowl of cheese-grits whenever my grandparents had their noses stuffed deep into the Decatur Daily, too impatient to wait to go play in the vast yard.
And then there were the games of Sudoku; I could sit on my grandfather’s lap for seemingly endless periods of time, my brown brows furrowed in an attempt to figure out whether to put the 9 or the 4 in the box on the right-hand corner. When dusk fell, my grandma would whisk me into the guest room and tell me wild stories of the adventures of Henry Whiskers, a cat who occupied his free time with dancing on the piano, skiing, and even sailing across the Atlantic. The days would tumble into one another, blending into a blissful blur that would leave me nostalgic when each school-year started up again in August.
I don’t have time for those gentle summers anymore. Those hottest days of the year now whiz by in a frenzy of events, schoolwork, and friends, and there’s barely an instant to spot a goldfinch before crashing back into first semester. Granted, it’s devilishly fun, but no longer simple.
Truth be told, the world has never been simple. I’ve come to realize that simple times don’t exist, only simple perspectives. As a young child, I lived happily in that oblivious summer bubble that was my grandparents’ house, sipping on blueberry juice and arguing with my brother over which cereal box was mine. How was I supposed to see, in those four short weeks, the racism that plagued nearby areas? How was I supposed to see the raging political debates that fueled the fires in peoples’ hearts or the cycles of poverty that continue to fester to this very day? Only later did I hear about the gun violence that takes the lives of too many. Only later was I able to comprehend the content of news channels that my grandparents put on every night, instead of lasering my attention on the bowl of salted popcorn.
People say that ignorance is bliss, and they’re certainly not wrong. But there is a time for ignorance and a time for cognizance. As we shed the skin of childhood, it is essential that we hold our simple times close so that we can face the grit of reality when adulthood dawns.