The thistle bud fight

Summer is a tire swing. I borrowed this sentence from another title of mine to get the notion fairly passed to you. People, who were born at the banks of a river and have spent a great deal of their lives in the near of constantly flowing calm waters, muddy waters, still and disturbed waters may have been already introduced to the idea. For those who haven't...well, make sure to get a river included in your next birth plan. The summer went smooth. Restless small bare feet was tapping traces on the sidewalk. Somebody's mom poached eggs for breakfast somewhere, I guess. I was drown in my sleepiness. Summer is a lazy fat man's drowse - a fantastic one in the afternoon Sundays when the heat is hissing outside. Thinking it right. Doing it wrong. Done from my armchair. Not precisely that I'd spend the day at the river, the fishing on flies or swinging on a tire over the still waters. No. Nothing of Tom Sawyer today. "Now who else do I like?" Try William the Conqueror, he was good. It takes more than an every day hero to get into a decent thistle and grass fight at dusk tonight. It's easier from armchair.

I had soft long waves of auburn hair flowing down my back to reach the very top of my waist. That day I was not going to wear it in an office manner pony tail. Ah, Life. I insisted on scratched knees and long hair all my childhood away. With the same attitude I later insisted that life should sound like the Jon Lord's Bouree. here

The dusk crawled in like the Trickster from above. We were prepared to smash the enemy in the dust this night…It was a No Mercy fight.

Every neighbourhood has it's own drooler. You just can't get without one. Ours was an oily snail and a renounced snitch too. The point is you need to have one of those back in your early days, so you'll come up pretty well-prepared for all the slug bosses left aside for further reference in your life. I am surrounded by all these complimentary delights even now as I write this piece of old summer Saturdays. But of course! The slug was my target. We had to get even from the day he has let Captain Savo's rabbits out of their cages and told the elders it was us who did it. I think he deserved to have only porridge for breakfast for the rest of his life and I hope his wife is an ugly, lazy indolent. And before all these there was going to be a thistle fight. The evening was silent and the sky had the purple to dark blue and pink shades of its hug in which spending the hours watching the nightlife, the lights and the fun has to be a pure bliss. Premium quality taste!

The true colour appeared later. The red of the blood from Macbeth's hands was all over above our heads with not even a star to brush this dreadful disgrace away with its light. Our mouths were dry like when you had too much bottles of wine. The air felt like a well-ripe almond. The soil under our feet was soft and warm. And the fun began. Way less than 300 Spartans prepared for the glory. The evening has withdrawn instantly its usual attributes like bugs, night butterflies and crickets to not disturb the magnificent aerobatics of the thistle. Suddenly, the air around could not be seen because of the grass. Glorious hails tore the night curtain. The slug's clothes were covered in thistle, his eyes were full of horror. This was the champagne o'clock. The moment he was giving up he threw what has remained from his thistle ball toward me as even a slug got the notion of a William the Conqueror. Of course, it was and accident as I turned my back to leave the battle field. He couldn't make it better even in his best plans and strategies. Thistle buds were all over my long hair making it a mess of a rasta.

I sat quietly on the bench at the gate of the house. Night noises came from all sides. Plates were clattering on dining tables. Moms served late meals. Someone was under the shower. Everybody was home. As the street lights switched on, the lights in a couple of windows went out to leave the reflection of the TV sets glimmering as in a night club. Worried flip flops of somebody who cared were rolling their steps down in the entrance.

Granny was coming down to look for me and get me at the table for dinner, bath, teeth brushing and all this stuff. There was not going to be a bedtime this night obviously. Of course, we have scissors. I cried, I begged, I made million promises of all kinds in order to save my hair. She sat quietly behind my back and didn't use the scissors at all. She spent the night taking each and every thistle bud out of my messed hair. At 3 a.m. half of the job was done. Jeeezzzzzz, I prefer I had have lice instead. The blasted thistle was very stubborn. Still, Gran had all the patience in the world. The first sun rays fell on my cheeks as a reminder of the meaning of the day. I needed to go one floor down and ask if Stefan is at home. Second - I desperately needed to smash his bread with ajvar on all over his face.

Two things I learned in the thistle war. First - I was bold enough to not care about my parents punishment when they knew, the only thing I was worried to safe was my hair. A samurai was breathing heavily in me that day. A very important second - I had to become a Musashi school samurai and get me a set of katana swords...for future reference. Apart from this all the summer continued to be a tire swing, hugging me in it's fantastic drowse on the afternoon Sundays.