When I woke up, the sky was breaking into pieces, the sound of thunders multiplied by the big raindrops falling into the window. I’ve never seen this kind of rain in NL, usually it rains slowly, without drama. But today, oh, today, the lightning was crossing the sky with rush, sending small signals on the ground.

I know these rains, they were there in each of my summer, at my grandparents. The village starts from the valley until the top of the hill and the house was located somewhere in the middle. During the summer time it was so normal for a good rain to come in order to refresh the land, to chill a little bit the burning ground. If this was not happening for days, then myself and grandpa used to go in the valley to take water in the barrels from the lake and use it in the garden. The small vegetables garden that I often see from the train are just a small sign of agriculture in NL, but in Romania everybody has a garden behind the house with all sorts of vegetables and fruits. And there’s no other better eating feeling than the one when you take a fresh tomato or strawberry from the pillar, a vegetable that doesn’t need washing, since no chemicals are used.

It was common to be sent during the summer vacation at your grandparents. Being 5, it was hard for my parents to manage us, so we were split: each one to a different house. The summer vacation used to be of 3 months, from June to September, and exactly on the first day of holiday my parents were sending me to the country side. I am the youngest one and most of time, I’ve spent my holidays alone, since there’s a huge difference of age between me and my other sisters. But there was no problem, at each house, nephews were coming for holiday, even my cousins from almost 700 km away. The street was crowded and, at that time, the main road was not cemented: small stones were dropped on it in order for cars to climb the hill. Each time a car passed an immense dust wave was produced behind it, but luckily, at that time,  cars were not a must have. The bus was coming 3 times a day and I remember I was just waiting for my parents to come in visit, with sweets from the store, something I was missing in the village.

The small house was a pleasant shelter when the rain was starting. The rage of the clouds and thunders was left outside by the sensible windows and the double entrance. But, sometimes, I was taking the special boots of my grandpa, rushing into the street, jumping into each small pond or creating dikes along the canal. I will never forget the smell of rain dropping on hot soil: a dusty smell, combined with fresh and warmth. And, for sure, I will never forget the summers I’ve spent in the village, playing, working or singing.

 

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