Chapter 7: Back We Go
As I emerge from the shade of the porch and my sneakers meet the gravel once again, the sun, having missed me, presses down on me with, almost, physical force. The weight of the sunshine and the billowing clouds of dust at my feet cause me to miss a step. For a moment, but just a moment, I almost release the heavy jar I am clutching, before recovering my footing and continuing across the driveway.
“Be careful, now!” comes the call from Aunt Ethel on the front porch, just before I catch the sound of the screen door opening and closing.
As I approach the road again, I stop and look to the left, then the right and finally to the left again. Just as I am about to step on to the asphalt, a sound catches my attention. The whisper, like a far off wind, draws my attention to me left, toward the hill. There I stand, listening. The whisper, deepens like the wind is opening its throat before a yell. Just then, the deepening whisper becomes a light rumble I can feel in my feet. The car tops the hill, and the whisper opens up into a breathy scream, as the light growl of the tires on the dry asphalt sings pleasure. The car races past and I turn my head, shut my eyes tight and hold my breath against the cloud of dust billowing in its wake. After a few seconds, the dust settles back toward the ground, once again, and after looking around, I cross the road.
As if the sun had been dimmed from the dust hanging in the car’s passing wake, the weight returns in full force as I cross the center line of the road, the heat warming my feet uncomfortably, even within my shoes. After a few more steps, I hop off the black top and back on to the, comparably, cool gravel driveway. Slowing, I walk in the middle of the driveway, wary of the tall grasses and their hidden spaces where snakes may hide.
Reaching the bottom of the hill, my walking becomes more of a trudge, the weight of the precious jar pulling on my every step. Careful not to slip on the gravel and spoil the jar, I trudge up the hill toward the tracks. Reaching the tracks, I stop and catch my breath. Looking over my shoulder, I see that no one sits on the porch, having returned to their own chores as I am returning with mine. The ever-present sun makes me long for the cane grove and the cool stream within. I will have to come back here later, if there is time. Having caught my breath, I continue up the driveway and around the left curve, clouds of disturbed dust puffing out from every footfall.
As I round the curve, I catch only the briefest glimpse of the house before the corn stalks reassert themselves as the sole owner of my vision. Ahead stands the great willow tree, and the right hand curve leading back to the house. Feeling a brief chill run through me, I stop and stand, listening. A light breeze drifts down from the mountain, causing the corn to shimmy into a scuffling, shuffling song. A moment after the corn begins its whisper; I feel the cool breeze drift over me, causing goose-flesh to erupt over my arms and the back of my neck and a shiver to run down my back. The breeze smells of newly turned earth and pine trees, before it is gone as quickly as it came and the heat of the day reasserts itself as if the breeze never happened.
Enlivened by the unexpected breeze, I begin skipping up the gravel drive. Rounding the last curve, the house again sits foremost in my vision. The white slate walls, green trim and tin roof speak more of home and love than any other house I know or will know.
Stepping back up into the front yard, retracing my steps, I skip across the grass, all traces of dew long gone. Passing into the shadow of the maple tree, I enter the side yard and look up to see GranMa in the kitchen window, watching me. I round the corner of the house as the kitchen door opens and there she stands.
“Here. Let me have that,” taking the jar of warm golden honey from my arms. “You go get washed up. Lunch is almost ready.”
“Yes, ma’am,” is all I reply as I slip past her and into the refreshingly cool house.
—
Returning to the kitchen, my face and hands are clean, albeit a little pink from the strong soap. I notice that my brief absence has brought me last to the table. The kitchen is full of scents that play images across my mind: dust and soap, sun and water, hard work and relaxation. I take my customary place at the table and finally notice what is for lunch – ham sandwiches. I have never asked from where the ham comes, but I know that the bread comes from Bud’s store and the lettuce from the garden. Without a word, a glass of milk is placed in front of me and we begin.
It may be hard to believe, but the ham sandwich is one of my favorite foods. I take two pieces of white bread; add just a bit of mayonnaise, just so the ingredients stick to the bread, and a generous sprinkling of black pepper. Between the bread is laid a large leaf of lettuce and a thick slice of ham. Putting it all together and I have a perfect lunch.
The first bite is the best of the sandwich. The bread is soft and the lettuce is crisp and crunches as I bite through it. The pepper envelopes the inside of my mouth with just a bit of its spice as the ham’s soft texture is cleaved from the rest and the mouthful is complete. The flavors of lettuce, pepper and ham dance with the bread and bit of mayonnaise as I chew. The swallow is chased by a sip of milk and all is good with the world. I repeat the process through the first sandwich and a second, with a little more lettuce and less ham.
Two sandwiches done and the table cleared, GranDad says, “Can I get your help?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll meet you out by the barn.” He turns and leaves the kitchen, headed for his bedroom.
I finish helping GranMa clean up after lunch and then head back out the kitchen door, being sure the screen door doesn’t slam when I release it.
Next: Chapter 8: Water (Coming Soon!)
Back: Chapter 6: A Visit
