Tuesday Memories

I woke up to the smell Aunt Gracie’s biscuits baking in the oven. I could hardly wait to get out of bed and rush into the kitchen to pile on the butter and home made blackberry jam. I was in heaven on this little scratch farm in the back hills of West Virginia.

Grandpa was already out in his old rocker under the apple tree sitting, whittling on a stick and making nothing in particular. His 80 some years of working this farm left him little energy to do more.

The sun had not yet taken the cool off this August morning and there was a freshness in the air and in the fresh-churned butter that I can’t find anymore even though I have moved to my own little piece of land. Except, there are wild blackberries growing at the back of our land where the deer like to come and nibble on fresh sprouts on the new fruit trees and with a few ripe, rich bites I remember Aunt Gracie’s biscuits and jam.

Until Mother died last year, she lived with us. My husband Mark was always doing things to make her feel the comfort that she felt growing up as a child of the country. He even raised chickens. He would pick one of those chickens up and hold it up by its legs where it would go into a state of hypnosis and just hang there like a stuffed toy and bring it into mother’s hospital bed and she would smile. Then the stories would begin about growing up on that farm with Grandpa and Grandma on Flat Top Mountain in West Virginia.

Yesterday Mark was cleaning out the barn on a very hot and sweaty August afternoon. He came in and told me he had found an old nest with eggs still in it from when we had chickens here for Mom’s fresh eggs and memories of days gone by. We shared a smile and went on with life without Mother and other family gone.