I drove along the interstate in southern Alabama. For miles I looked at the same landscape. Gentle swells of land green at the borders with wire grass and pines. Large swatches of plowed ground revealed the brick red earth.
Rows of spent cotton branches in other fields hold echoes of those who picked the bolls by hand and placed them in burlap sacks slung over their hunched shoulders in the blistering heat.
Peanut fields flaunt their drying crop on the surface of the even rows. Large rolls of cut hay sit like huge golden roasted marshmallows on their sides. The smell of the fresh cut grass intermingled with the green peanut aroma in the air makes me think of home.
Ponds on farmland reflect the sky and clouds.
Livestock wander to the edge to drink.
A red dirt road runs parallel to the highway and then turns along the side of the field and between a canopy of trees. Driving by I can see the road stretches straight ahead until the end looks like the tip of a pencil in the distance. My mind wanders to a time outside the present and down that red dirt
road.
road.
Ancestors toiled this land. Hands were taken in marriage and lives were taken at the shot of a gun. Old fashioned ways were the rule of the land. Homes were built with crude lumber and sweat from one's own brow. Brooms swept red dirt yards. Children played barefoot and skipped along the road to fish. Grandmothers cooled pies in the pie chest.
Folks visited. Sitting in the yard sipping sweet iced tea as they shelled fresh field peas and shucked corn. Momma spent hours putting up fig preserves. Pa Pa spit tobacco and picked up the fallen pecans from the yard.
Pick up trucks gathered with the tail gate down for a place to sit a while.
The side porch holds a bed between the slat glass windows that open with the crank of a handle. Sheer curtains billow with the breeze and a yellow chenille bedspread invites you to take a nap.
Books were coveted especially the Bible. One sat on the bedside table on the doily.
A block pattern quilt covered the mattress and the stripes on the pillow ticking could be seen through the thin cotton casing with embroidery on the edges. A floral painted porcelain bowl and pitcher sit on the dresser.
In the hall hangs a picture of Jesus. His heart exposed on his chest and a halo over his head. Another of a guardian angel watches over a small boy and girl walking along a footbridge. Old photographs of family stare back through the curved glass of the oval frames.
A cast iron skillet sits on the stove. A plate of fried cornbread pones sit off to the side.
Leftovers from supper sit on the counter with a cloth over them for cover. The kitchen is still hot from cooking and the warm evening air. The dog sleeps on the front porch waiting for a hand out.
The talk quiets as the train passes interrupting the speaker. All ears wait.
Walking around the yard is like a tour at Callaway Gardens. Roses in the sun and purple and white phlox in he shade. Black Eye Susans and day lilies line the fence. A bird bath is empty. Fire ants build a red dirt fortress.
Geraniums in pots on the porch and fern under the shade tree in the back yard. The rope swing sits idle.
The storm cellar doors hold safety at a moments notice of a tornado threat.
I pull out a pencil and my pad of paper I carried outdoors and write what I feel and see and love about home. A place I did not grow up in but where I will always belong.
The Homestead
A homestead is
There for all of us
It matters not who we are
Our minds travel back
To a simpler time
When we were afraid of things in the dark
As we age there comes a time
when those memories
We hold dear
Come racing forward and
Remind us of home
And we know there was nothing to fear
Home embraces us with love from our past
Of this I'm certainly clear
A homestead is here
And will always will be near
To chase our demons
Away from the dark
by: Cathy Windham
in memory of Jimmy's Grandmother, Daisy Hicks.
Midland City, Al
3/9/2013
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