Sweet Home

Sweet summer sun gilds the soft grass in dapples. It's a beautiful day, just the right temperature. The hum of bees can be heard through the sound of leaves dancing from a gentle breeze. I sigh happily as I step onto the shaded front porch of my grandparent's house. Across the street is a giant weeping willow tree, partially blocking the facade of an old church. The church bells ring. It's ten o' clock.

In my bare feet, I step out onto the uneven cracked sidewalk and feel it's coolness. Tall maple, pine and oak trees tower above me. It's a great time for a walk on a warm summer day. In this small town where I was born it's a quick trip to the neighborhood grocery store, a produce stand, a bubbling creek with soft grey pebbles, a pizza & subs joint, maple farms, gravity-defying rock formations, a park, the local paper supply store, my grandpa's warehouse (where he keeps tons of old vending machines and games like pac-man), a country fair with hand-pulled taffy, anywhere. It's a simple town compared to the city where I currently live, but it awakens my senses like nowhere else.

Sometimes I'll catch a smell in my nose and the memories all come rushing back. The air is crisp and alive with nature's peak climax of summer. The fresh odor of weeds, flowers and grass remind me of days down at our camp where we'd eat fresh watermelon and roll down the hill in a blanket. Where the clay bottom of the pond would squish between my toes and uncle Tracey played harmonica and sang "Bullfrog sittin' on a railroad track." The old house has it's familiar scents, too. It's just the same as it's always been. The faint hint of grandma's perfume, carpet and fabric detergent mixed with eucalyptus wreaths and chicken baking in the oven. The attic is deep and dank, smelling of old wood, dust and aged paper and it makes me think fondly of the paper dolls they kept there for me when I visited. Grandpa's office (where, as a child, I was never allowed) smells like freshly sharpened pencils, wallpaper paste and the faint odor of tobacco. Freshly brewed coffee wafts from the kitchen. All of these smells take me back to something old and raw inside of me, as if they were etched into my soul the day my parents brought me home from the hospital and into that house on June, 1980.

There's something about this place. And to be honest? I'm so scared that someday, when my grandparents are no longer here, I'll start to forget it. I don't want to ever forget! I wish I could capture it in a bottle... all of it. Grandma's wonderful back rubs and soft warm hugs, singing the hymns at the baptist church with grandpa's tenor voice in my ear, the sound of laughter and familiar voices, my view of the oak tree from my bedroom window, the back steps where we shuck corn, all the smells and sounds that make this home. I choose to remember it. I won't forget.