Indiana Sun

Chapter 1

Fremont, Indiana, summer of 1976. You were five years old.
Five years old, that's when you started to remember things about your life. All the memories began at five.
You were digging in the dirt, in the sunny front lawn of your painted yellow-stucco one story house. Mitch was eleven when you were five. Mae Elise was eight.

You were in the plaid-patterned dress with the orange, green, and yellow color scheme. Nonno and Nonna watched you make mudpies as the sun shone off of your short, messy brown hair and freckled cheeks. Aunt Jill told you that you looked like your dad. You would never agree.

"Ellie, it's time for dinner!"
You dropped your shovel as you kissed Nonna and Nonno goodnight, even thought it was five-thirty and light outside. You watched them drive off in their brown sedan, their lawn chairs still unfolded, resting, on the honey-soaked lawn.
"Ellen Louise, now!"

Mama was beautiful. She had blonde hair in a bob, and always wore black heels with a faded pink sole. She had a thin waist, and when she went to work, she always wore a tight shirt with a voluminous skirt and a black belt with the golden rectangle buckle. If she wasn't wearing the brown headband, she was wearing her hair in a bun.
You saw her tap her toe and count to three as you ran up the brick stairs to your door. She may have sounded angry, but her blue eyes told another story.

You hugged her leg and said to her,
"I'm not hungry, mama."
She looked down to you and delicately fixed one of your uneven braids.
"Go on to the table, Ellen Louise."
"But mama-"
"I don't want to hear it. You can go outside and play afterwards. Go on," she said; she patted your rump as you scampered through the door frame, in the house, across the living room's brown shag rug, and into the kitchen, with its vinyl flooring.

Mae Elise set the table that night. Everyone was sitting at their places, waiting for you. You hopped up onto the seat of the wooden, felt-seat chair. Golden sun poured in from the windows as a mockingbird called out.
You poured the lemonade that night. You passed the salad, as mama gave you your pasta and sauce. You remember sliding each of the pieces of penne onto the prongs of your fork, until mama put her hand on yours.
"Remember your manners, Ellie."
"Yes, mama," you said, as you swing your legs under the table, your bare feet covered with dirt. Sure, you tracked some in the house, but mama didn't mind. You were five.

Your father's name was Harry, and you called him, 'dadda' until you were ten. He worked for Collins and Dickinson's law firm. He was 42, and always combed his hair meticulously. He never grew a beard, and had his brown suit and grey suit. Each morning, you got up early to pick out his dress shirt for the day. He would wait for you each morning, for years, until one day, when you stopped coming. He then picked out his own dress shirts.

When you were five, Mitch was eleven. He was really into football, and when your dad came home, he would tackle him. Mitch would always be playing catch with Miles and Peter and Freddy and Mike. He was on the baseball team. He would always let you play catch, u until he was twelve. One day, he said he didn't want you playing with him because girls can't play sports, and he doesn't want girls to play with him. You went to mama and cried, because all she could say is, "that's how boys are."

Mae Elise was eight, when you were five. Though everyone called her Elise, you called her Mae Mae. You always called her that, until she was thirteen, she got angry with you and yelled at you. That was your first real argument. She would always take mama's makeup and heels. She would put herself in a nice dress and smear lipstick on her lips, and march around in mama's work stilettos. She pranced around saying, "I'm mama!" Until the whole family laughed. You then out on your father's dress shoes and played with her. The two of you were jumping and dancing until she fell down. You would never forget that, but you were sure she had.

Mama's name was Evelyn. She would always fix you a snack after school. It was either an apple, or a sandwich, or a box of Sunkist™️ raisins. She worked as a secretary for Dr. Golds dentistry practice. You would consider her your lifelong friend- nobody understood you like she. You remembered talking to her each and every day, about everything on your mind, on the edge of your bed, with its knitted bead spread, pictures of horses adorned its corners. Your bed was right next to Elise's. Every night, you would talk, until one night, she worked late. You couldn't sleep that night. You cried as the moon showed it's face through your window.

Uncle Casey was your favorite relative. He went to all your softball games, and gave you baseball cards and had contests with who can blow the biggest bubble. Nonna always said he shouldn't do that, or you'll grow up with bad manners and won't act like a lady. He never stopped teaching you that clowning around every once in a while was never a bad thing. You miss him each day.

Aunt Jill was a very sweet lady. She would always wear soft pastel colors, and once gave you a copy of Little Women that you still have. You read it more times that you can count.

Your cousin, Dana, was fifteen when you were five. She was always a role model, and made you flower crowns in April. You remembered swimming with her in July at the beach, and splashing each other. You remember giving her your prized seashell, when you got home that day, but you doubt she still has it.

Nonna was your grandma. You had others, but she was the main one. She taught you how to bake cupcakes and how to plant Mums and Azaleas and Petunias. You specifically remember her pearl necklace that she would always wear, whenever she came over. You remember the day she stopped wearing them. That's when everyone began to know.

Nonno was your grandfather. He took you fishing, and always let you wear his old suit coats. He always encouraged you to swim when he took you to the stream. You remember catching your first fish there. You remember losing one sandal there, and going home to mama yelling, but he assured his daughter it was all okay. They were just having fun. But it wasn't about the sandal.

You remember all your family vividly. Your town, the year of 1976. Your childhood, the one thing in the world you wouldn't trade for the sun. Not the moon, or the stars. It's what you cherished most.