Thinking back to those not so long ago but almost forgotten days of my childhood years, I vaguely see fleeting images that my mind has imprisoned to be sure they never escape my aging brain.
The tang of chewing tobacco fills my mind as I remember sitting with Grandpa on his weathered unpainted porch. A succulent, acrid taste drowns my tastebuds, as a tingle runs up my spine at the delight of the, not so often, times he would permit me to gnaw on a wad of that brown sticky weed.
As we sat rocking in our handmade but sturdy chairs, tapping our fingers to the rhythm of Hi Ho Silver, pesky flies would swarm in herds making the hot, humid weather seem more irking than it might have been otherwise. To crush one of those little plagues between an ingeniously invented fly-swatter would all but bring gratification and joy to my soul.
Within seeing distance from my seat was a flowerbed, drenched with rabbit grass, tiny purple flowers with petals so sleek, velvety, and delicate they would wither at the slightest touch. The pale green stems were filled with a watery liquid that was bitter and pleasant to taste, like a grapefruit sprinkled with sugar.
Dripping, dripping, dripping into an old Spartan pail were tiny globules of liquid falling from the rusted water pump. To partially fill the bucket would leave my muscles aching and my hands’ reddish-brown and gritty from the rust, which didn’t mix well with sweat.
Sitting alone at the far end of a sizeable untilled field was a lonely outhouse built in the early 1900s and still to this day, in 1971, the only means of a restroom since running water was not allowed in the one-bedroom house. Which, like the porch, and barn, used to shelter the white four-door 1956 Ford, had never felt the protective strokes of a paintbrush.
On the porch sat an antique wardrobe with its lead mirrors and missing knobs. A tossed out coffee cup could be seen holding leftover soap slivers and Grandpa’s worn-out, overused shaving brush and strap through a crack from one of the slightly open doors.
The sun was inching slowly behind the towering oak tree that shades the entire broad lawn most of the roasting July day. The multi-colored roosters and gossipy white hens rustled their way past the porch and through the dirt, restfully heading for the comfort of the barn to settle in for the duration of the night.
All around, everything seemed so enchanting and unviolated by the progress of time. As I rocked my chair and unskillfully spat the juices from the wad of Lady Nicotine rolling over my tongue into an empty aluminum vegetable can, a nauseated sensation overtook my body. Giddiness prevailed me, and my whole being began to whirl. Grandpa’s laughter was conspicuous in the background as I bolted from the porch and dashed for the faraway outhouse.