Yesterday, I began another section of the writing institute that I attend each summer. We normally have a few days before the summer begins and yesterday was just such an occasion. I woke up extremely early excited about the opportunity to write - for pleasure! I haven't been able to do that since last summer due to my master's degree and national boards. I knew what we would be doing so I began thinking early about the favorite place I would write about. I wish that I had a picture of my great-grandmother's house to accompany this post, but I don't. This piece is incomplete, but something I wanted to document the progress on.
Gleaming white against the blazing summer sky, the clapboard frame speaks of home to me. Gray slatted front porches that lead to concrete steps where grandkids gathered for games of colored chicks and tag. As we matured, our games left the steps and gravitated to the wooden porch swing where we would rock away our sorrows and hurts or soar to the sky with victories and triumphs. The sound of the slamming screen door slapping against its frame often resulted in a "Stay inside or out," or a quick swat to the backside. Sweet smells of homemade yeast rolls fluttered through the windows beckoning for a trip to the turn of the century kitchen that was too small for everyone, but well worth the pushing and shoving for a pat of butter, muscadine jelly, and that melt in your mouth flavor. The chrome trimmed table for two that always held a fresh lemon cake, was the setting for a Sunday afternoon sip of Coca-a-Cola from a recycled jelly glass. Aunts, uncles, and grandparents shared stories of days gone by as Maw Maw Addie rocked away the week in her white wooden rocker with the hand quilted seat cushions. The creak of her rocker was often accompanied by Aunt Etelka or a story of Uncle Jesse. Family reunions under the carport with long lines of family recipes always led the way to find Aunt Elaine's strawberry dump cake or Uncle Douglas's banana cake. Rustling newspapers spread across tables were the welcoming arms for the crawfish, corn, and potatoes that were poured from the pot. Gathered around shelling tails, the spice of life peppering our tongues and lips depending on who seasoned the pot. Curley-Q fries crackling in hot grease as the men sat around sharing the latest fishing triumph at the camp.