I myself believe that youthful memories are an investment for the autumn of life. Everything that happened badly fades with the years, but joyful moments remain, rays of sunshine that illuminate the grayness of old age. In my earliest childhood, I lived alternately with both grandmothers. My father’s mother lived on a large, successful farm not far from Ljubljana: a large barn full of cows, calves, and a horse would still be the pride of any farmer today. Once a week, my grandmother would get on a tricycle and ride to the market to sell cream, salami, eggs, and vegetables that she grew on her home field. My uncle already had the first machines that made the work easier. When we went to the field, I could ride a horse, and my love for these magnificent animals never faded. It was here that I learned to ride a bicycle so that I could go to the shop in the neighboring village and get a lollipop as a reward. Another, a grandmother from Dolenjska, lived in a small village below Gorjanci. It was at least half an hour’s walk to the bus stop and only a few boys went to work. The house, built by my grandfather with money he had saved in America, was at the beginning of the village, all covered in flowers, with climbing frames surrounding the fence at the entrance. There was no water supply even decades later, the water for cooking was in a well where rainwater was collected. Opposite the house was a “puddle”, I don’t know if it was a spring, but the water was in the reservoir all year round. In winter it was an excellent skating rink, but otherwise it served as a watering place for animals. Towards evening, the children would each drive their own cow and while the animals were drinking, they, especially the boys, would chase each other and play pranks, and I was the main target; I was sitting on the steps in front of the entrance. “Look at her, Ljubljana shirt!” was an insult that I didn’t understand, but I was sure it meant something nasty. “Quiet, peasant trumpet!” I shouted back, picking up stones along the path and throwing them at my laughing opponents. Until my grandmother intervened and quickly made things right. We had to apologize to each other and from then on we were friends; every evening I waited to hear the cowbells as they came up the dusty macadam path. Ten minutes of playing, competing to see who could throw a stone into the water the furthest, “ristanc”, “zemlo krast”… the cows had already turned towards home and the children had to work hard to get home before them. The best part of the day followed: I sat in the garden in front of the house, watched the lights slowly come on in distant Novo mesto, counted the clouds and listened to the incredible chorus of frogs that had taken over the puddle. Much later, when we sang The Frog Wedding at school, I always thought about the wonderful concert I had witnessed. Even because of these memories, riding a man’s bicycle, and hearing the frogs croaking in the pond, I never had any doubts about moving to a farm. Of course, life in the village is not a fairy tale, those children with whom I spent summers had anything but an easy childhood: getting up at dawn, grazing, helping in the fields, a long way to school in the rain and snow… but they were resourceful, they found fun even while working, on the way to school they would pick strawberries and chestnuts, chat, tease each other, they had an immense imagination – they were children. Lili