This is a photo of the Last Southern Belle's home. Back in the day, it was all white and had a spindle porch rail going around the whole front and part of the left side of the house. Out in front, near the street, there was a stone and cement fence running the length of the property line. A huge oak tree stood out near the street and shaded part of the right front yard, but it is gone now. All in all, the current owners of the house have taken good care of it and it is well maintained. I wish I could see the inside of it. Even more, I wish it was still in our family, as it would make a great retreat in the deep of winter. I often return to the house in my dreams at night. It still holds a powerful (perhaps unconscious) attraction for me. The table that is standing to the right of the front door is made (I think) from an old Singer foot petal sewing machine that my grandmother had upstairs in the house.
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I set the above photo as the wallpaper on my computer, and it gives me great pleasure to look at it each day. The photo on the bottom of the narrative is a side view of the house and the side porch. Porches play a large part in my memories of the house - the front porch with the rails, the side porch with a swing and a screened in area that housed a green metal glider, the back screened in porch where Sally shelled peas.
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The weeks I spent at that house in the summers of my youth are among my happiest memories. There is a big ditch that runs along the street on the opposite side and it is still there. What fun it was to play in that ditch and jump across it. Numerous are the times I walked the spindle railings on the porch, balancing so as not to fall. There was a handrail on the side of the front steps of the house that I also used to love to slide down; once I fell and cut my head pretty badly. The little stone walkway provided unlimited fun, as did playing bounce-the-ball games against the wall on the front porch, as did playing in a hose out front and building mud houses and populating them with ants and roly-poly bugs.
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I would spend many summer weeks with my grandmother in that house, once my grandfather died. Sounds of the night are still with me - the clock ticking on the mantel, the train going by on the tracks up the road, the hum of night insects and a dove or whippoorwill calling. I would sleep with my grandmother in her bed and she would rub my arms and ask how I could sleep without covers, saying I would surely be too cold. Our lives consist of many lives lived with many different people in (for many of us) many different places.
Thinking of days gone by and loved ones gone, I am reminded of another poem I used to love. The drawing is from the original book and is in the public domain now.
Out to Old Aunt Mary's
- James Whitcomb Riley
Wasn't it pleasant, O brother of mine,
In those days of the lost sunshine
Of youth - when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the "Sunday's wood" in the Kitchen, too,
And we went visiting, "me and you,"
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
It all comes back so clear today!
Though I am as bald as you are gray
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,
We patter along in the dust again,
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
We cross the pasture through the wood
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering red-heads hopped awry,
And the buzzard "raised" in the clearing sky,
And lolled and circled, as we went by,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And then in the dust of the road again;
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
As thick as butter on country bread
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Why, I see her now in the open door,
Where the little gourds grew up the sides, and o'er
The clapboard roof!
And her face ah, me!
Wasn't it good for a boy to see, and
Wasn't it good for a boy to be
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
The jelly the jam, and the marmalade,
And the cherry and quince "preserves" she made!
And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,
With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare!
And the more we ate was the more to spare
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom
Of the willow-trees, and the cooler room
Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept
Where the cream in a golden languor slept
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept
Out to Old Aunt Mary's
And as many a time have you and I
Barefoot boys in the days gone by
Knelt, and in tremulous ectasies
Dipped our lips into sweets like these,
Memory now is on her knees
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
And O, my brother, so far away,
This is to tell you she waits today
To welcome us: Aunt Mary fell
Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell
The boys to come!'
And all is well
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
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The last memory to share today is of the little Methodist Church that was catty-corner from my grandmother's house. My grandfather's name is on the cornerstone, as one of the original trustees of the church. The little church, too, is still in good shape. We had a service for my mother there, and my daughter, a minister, officiated. How proud my mother and grandparents would have been of all their grandchildren and great-grandchildren gathered to celebrate/honor my mother's life.
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The song in the posting below always reminded me of this little church and evokes memories of places of long ago.
