Home of My Heart

I walked in the back door and it was as if a tuning fork was placed in my chest. It was raining and the sound of the drops on the tin roof was more magnificent than any symphony I’ve ever heard. Immediately, I was at peace and looking forward to a couple of days here at The Farm.

It’s rained a lot since Thursday and the creek is running high. I love the sounds and the smells of this house. It takes me back to my childhood. I have a vivid memory of a Thanksgiving here at my grandma’s house. I was probably around ten or eleven years old. Mom and Dad had us bundled up in the back seat of the Oldsmobile. It was raining and cold, exactly like it was yesterday. The leaves on the ground were no longer crisp and rustling. They rehydrated in the rain and were now plastered together like a macabre kind of carpet with tufts of green fibers intertwined. There was a heavy, wet smell of damp earth and moss and old pine needles.

Grandma met us at the back door, her apron hastily tied over her ever-present cotton house dress. Her hanky peeked out from the pocket over her once heavy bosom…her hair neatly combed and twisted in a bun at the nape of her neck. I never saw her any other way, save for the days she washed her hair and the long, silver and black tresses draped down her back. She bent forward with her hands clasped together and pressed to her knees. Her eyes crinkled up with her smile as she prepared to wrap us up in her arms for one of the sweetest hugs on the planet.

She smelled like vanilla and Beeman’s gum and Ivory soap. Her hands were worn yet soft from years of hard work on the farm. The roadmap of lines over her face told of countless joys and countless tears. Her heart was always overflowing with love for her family and she was never happier than when the house was full of conversation and squealing children.

When you stepped into the kitchen of this old house, the heat and humidity hit you like a ton of bricks. The aroma of roasting turkey and dressing competed with the pot of half runners and salt pork simmering on the back burner. She handed each of us a raisin filled cookie and sent us on our way to play with our cousins who were visiting from out of town.

The kitchen was quiet when I walked in yesterday, save for the rain on the roof. There were no yummy smells wafting out the back door to greet me. No “Ginny Lynnie…git yorself in here ‘fore you cetch yer death a cold!” I carried the groceries in and set them on the countertops where everything was still in the same spot as I left them the last time. Mr. FixIt called as soon as I walked in the back door, checking in to make sure I arrived safely. What a good husband he is! I put away the refrigerated items, gathered the magazines I brought from home, and pulled up the curtains in Grandma’s window.

It was dim in the room, even with the curtains opened so I went upstairs to find an old lamp to set by the chair. Once that was done, I sat there till the sun went down…my hands resting in my lap…the pages unopened as I soaked up the peace and quiet of this house. This home of my heart.

I sat back and closed my eyes….and remembered and remembered and remembered.