On a bright Autumn Sunday, my sister, Doreyl, and I
took time out to walk up to the top of Ammons Mountain in Jackson County.
Once there, after making our way through the jungle of overgrown weeds and
hidden creeks crisscrossing our way, we finally found the old spring that had
been used by Grandma, Grandpa and all their children.
The shady bank of the mountain glistened with the
birthing of icy spring water. Near the base of the bank, there was still a
piece of pipe protruding from underneath a large rock with a full inch of water
pouring forth. We smiled at each other, leaned over, and caught the freshness in
our hands to have a drink of memories.
Caught, then, in
the spirit of the past, we set out across the flat crest of the mountain toward
the rise where the old house had been. Weeds had claimed the old
trail. We trudged on, slipping in our soggy shoes as “beggar lice” matted
our jeans. Halfway there we saw the rock chimney, strong and proud,
leaning on nothing. At its knees lay the ruins of what had been the
welcoming light in the eyes of three young children coming to see their
grandparents long ago.
The rubble of wood was
ribboned with the black diamond-flaked, tar-paper roof. Even in its
surrender, the roof still looked as if it were a royal robe on the back of
nobility.
“Wow!” sang Doreyl to me. “Do you
feel it?”
Nodding, I returned her enthusiasm. Then,
stepping gingerly, the two of us made our way onto the top of the
weathered wood of Grandpa & Grandma’s house and sat down. In the quiet, the
wind shook black walnuts from the old trees above the chimney. Walnuts
danced here and there in the high sagegrass. A hawk dipped and soared in
the blue distance. I glanced down. There, between the slats in the
rubble, I saw the edge of what used to be the rough-cut kitchen table. A wave of
nostalgia clouded my eyes. Then, I was there, sitting around that table,
watching Grandma pull her big brown biscuits from the wood stove in the
corner. I could smell the warm bread.
“Here, honey,
bring the platter over whilst I get the bacon drippin’s to pour overtop.”
Grandma said.
I was only tall enough to reach her apron
strings. Presenting the platter, I could see the gravy bubbling on the eye
of the stove, and hear the dull thud of oatmeal chatting away. Carrying the
platter to the table, I felt all eyes turn to view this joy of the
morning--Grandma’s biscuits.
And then, there we were...Grandpa, me, Daddy, Uncle
Nealie and Aunt Lillie, Aunt Corie and Kenneth, with Grandma standing
behind. There was David, Michael, Linda and Doreyl all crambed on the
other side. All of them...sitting around the table. They were laughing,
their eyes shining with the moment.
On the table were
quart jars of canned peaches with large spoons stuck down inside them, platters
of scrambled eggs and fatback, those big biscuits, an old coffee pot full and
wooden racks of dark, combed honey. I pulled my filled spoon closer,
opened my mouth--and stepped back to the present.
The
warmth of the sun on my back, I leaned over and touched a piece of that table of
old, and felt Doreyl’s hand on my shoulder.
“Here,” she
said. “Let’s eat.” She handed me a sandwich. “Let’s eat while we sit here;
we’re in good company.”
Those were the best of times...sitting ‘round the
table. Remember?
And then, there we were...Grandpa, me, Daddy, Uncle
Nealie and Aunt Lillie, Aunt Corie and Kenneth, with Grandma standing
behind. There was David, Michael, Linda and Doreyl all crambed on the
other side. All of them...sitting around the table. They were laughing,
their eyes shining with the moment.