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by Ross Cavins A typical Summer Sunday in my childhood … Seventy degrees and sunny, a puffy white cloud here and there. Afternoon softball games with relatives in the oversized front yard. Children and grown-ups play without perspiring, The aroma of honeysuckles strong and sweet in the warm air. Fun is everywhere; The newly cut thick green carpet of centipede grass spongy beneath our feet, The freshly oiled leather gloves soft in our hands, The crack of the bat and a friendly scream to run, A bright laughter dancing in everyone's eyes, Sweet tea with ice cubes and tart lemon wedges sweating in old jelly jar glasses. Afterwards, the charcoal is doused with lighter fluid from a squeezy metal can, Salad is tossed with store-bought iceberg lettuce, garden-grown juicy tomatoes, Julienne carrot strips, hot-tasting radishes, slivers of green and red bell peppers, Slices of vine-ripened cucumbers. Hamburger patties are lumpy, hand-made with Worcestershire sauce and ketchup and Onion soup mix and minced garlic. Placed on the grill when it's hot enough to sizzle, Grease-fed orange flames engulfing them with hisses of smoky flavor. The ice cream maker is plugged in and filled with milk and sugar and Vanilla extract and mashed bananas, surrounded by rock salt and ice and Running like a sputtering outboard motor. Buns are toasted with pats of real butter

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