Growing up in Sutton, Arkansas

A gathering of the clan
creates memory swirls:

Pitterpattering of rain on distorted window panes;
ummm-yeah smell of cornbread sizzling in a hot skillet;
taste of well water two days after a spring shower;
sleep-inducing sound of a darting dirt dauber;
taste of buttermilk and cornbread mixed in a tall jelly glass
with just a touch of pepper, gently swirled
to make an abstract pinwheel in black and white;
a walk up the lane to the Duncan field
where the cattle thieves were hung and buried, disputing
the site of the graves,
as always,
not know exactly where they were “turned under,”
but, still, knowing exactly where they were “turned under”;
smell of honeysuckle in July, the scent accented by a syncopated orchestra
of field bees, covering the tangled vines like a moving blanket;
fishing in the farm pond and picking out the good fishing spots
according to age seniority, then arguing about why the fish wouldn’t bite;
milking the cows, allowing a calculated stray stream to hit a cousin’s foot,
and being intimately involved in a cow-chip fight when the milking was done;
trips to town on Saturday afternoons for ice cream
and rock-hard apples eaten on street corners,
killing time while the grown-ups do their business –
cash checks,
buy groceries,
dicker the price of Hope Diamond watermelons,
look at but seldom buy store-bought clothes;
games of Rook at sunset around the scarred, tipsy, small kitchen table,
big folks and their little clan-clones all playing hard,
always to win and cheating when one knows he will get caught,
loving each other when the catching is done,
laughing at the over-bidding,
whopping and hollering when the over-bid is made;
smell of eggs, fresh sausage and homemade biscuits on Sunday morning;
tangy scent of Aris Hair Oil intermingled with Old Spice After Shave lotion
as family members prepare for church;
the too-short walk up the lane,
three generations, walking in unison to the asbestos-sided
Nazarene Church to hear a sermon on sin
(all the visiting preachers were against it)
located south of Lambert’s Store, north of the T-road;
singing all-too-familiar songs to the rhythm banged out
by a strong-wristed woman playing an out-of-tune piano;
hearing Bible stories –
Samson and Delilah, Job and his Trials,
Moses and the Ten Commandments,
Jonah and the Whale;
Sunday dinner with a goose-necked preacher,
and ending up with just a wing and a back simply because we had “company”;
games of one-hole washers,
horseshoes,
kick-the-can,
buck-buck,
cowboys and Indians,
cops and robbers,
hide-n-seek;
roping chickens, delighting in watching them screech and run in circles;
a rooster named Old Red spurring early-morning risers en route to the outhouse;
stories from Uncle France, who lied about most things,
including, maybe, the origin of his own name,
but was loved by almost everyone who ever listened to his tales;
bedtime stories told while snuggling deep in down mattresses
covered by flannel sheets and handmade quilts;
going to sleep to the sound of crickets, hoot owls, night birds,
and the occasional coyote yelp;
Nannie slipping grandkids money before they left;
Daddy George never watching loved ones drive away.
And the most important memory of all: the knowledge that
love surrounded you every minute of every day.

Memory swirls.