I grew up on a few acres in a small town in Northwest Georgia. Our home was small by some standards, but it never felt small to me. My Dad's name is Howard and he is the hardest worker I have ever known. He still is. There were very few moments in my young life that I witnessed my father sitting still. He was usually away at work, slaving away at the paper mill, perfecting a work ethic that would eventually sustain a 40 year career at that place. When he was home he was still working, either in the yard or on a car. My mother, Debbie, stayed home and cooked, cleaned and blessed my brother and I with a maternal love that was more than we could have ever asked for. She was soft, tender and even when we drove her to her breaking point we never questioned her love for us. By "us", I mean my brother Justin and I. Justin was born about two years after I was and immediately I loved him. He was a living baby doll in my eyes. That is, until he started talking. Our younger years were a constant push and pull for attention with long breaks in between of a familial companionship that I think happens especially with siblings who are close in age.
Early in the morning, before the sun would rise, I would hear the stirrings of my father as he prepared to go to work. The house would be quiet and dark, my brother and mother still sleeping, and I would make my way to the soft light coming from the bathroom. I would sit on the counter in silence, watching my Dad in the mirror as he shaved his face. The coffee would be brewing and the bitter fragrance of the coffee would mix with his aftershave and cologne. It was a mesmerizing and delectable scent. In those moments I felt safe, secure and so very close to him. It was just the two of us in the world in that half hour or so in the early morning and I looked forward to it each day. We didn't talk much, we didn't have to. I appreciated being with him and having him to myself and I think he knew I was just a little girl fascinated by her father, wanting to be just like him some day. Quiet, strong, respected and hard working. I admired him very much and still do. When it was time for him to go he would turn on the TV with the volume down low and I would watch Tarzan(the black and white version) until my mother woke up to get us ready for school.
My mother is beautiful. She has bright blue eyes, soft, pale skin and tiny hands. She gave me comfort like nothing else. If I was hurting or sad, she would take me in her arms and I would lose my worries in her powdery scent and softness. There has always been mystery behind her blue eyes and even today I know there are parts of her I don't know. Most importantly, I have known her love. On summer days she would lay in the lush grass as my father did yard work and we would imagine whole worlds beneath the green blades and leaves. We would part the grass and see ants, crickets and other bugs scurrying around and we would imagine where they were going and what their little bug-lives were like. Each evening she would begin preparing dinner. I remember watching her small hands peel endless mounds of potatoes, mixing cornmeal and buttermilk with them to make cornbread and then washing dishes in scalding water after the meal was complete. I always marveled at how unfazed she was at the scalding water as she scrubbed pots and pans, her tiny hands never lost their softness despite all the abuse.
Whether I liked it or not, Justin was my only consistent friend. On summer days we would head outside just after sunrise and would explore, create and adventure until the sun went down, stopping only if Mom called us in for lunch. We had several peach, cherry, plum and walnut trees on the property and my brother and I would use the unripened fruit to make "stews" to accompany our mud pies. When the fruit was ripe we would pluck quick snacks off the trees in between adventures. Three acres doesn't seem like much to some, but to us it was a world of endless possibilities. While Dad was at work we would rummage through his tool shed taking hammers to the big granite rocks we would find hoping that once we crushed them there would be some rare gemstone inside. Unfortunately we never found any gemstones. What we did find were our imaginations. Some days we would pretend to be characters in made up stories. Some days we laid in the tall grass so that all we could see were the golden blades blowing in the wind and the clouds floating by against the blue sky talking about nothing in particular. And when we heard Dad's old pick up truck turn into the gravel driveway we ran as fast as we could back to the house.
My Dad would watch TV after dinner for a little while before going to bed. I remember sitting in the living room floor watching Tour of Duty and feeling grown up even though I really didn't understand most of what was going on. Sometimes I would get bored trying to understand and I would put my headphones on and listen to George Michael, Tiffany or the Beatles on my little portable cassette player and lay underneath my Dad's feet as he laid back in the reclining chair. I'm not sure how he never managed to close the chair on my face. I guess he always knew I was under there.
My Mom would tuck my brother and I into bed. If we asked she would gently caress our arms and hair until we fell asleep, her small fingers relaxing me into dreams. Sometimes she would sing Jesus Loves Me softly to us as we drifted off.
Birthdays were one of my mother's specialties. She always, even to this day, makes me feel special on my birthday. When I was little she would often make a strawberry cake from scratch. My favorite. We would spend the weekend somewhere away from home, sometimes it was the lake, sometimes it was the beach. My brother's birthday is just a few weeks after mine so some years she would celebrate them together and I didn't mind really. We always received our own special gifts, individual cake and lots of attention. As I got to be an older teen I lost some appreciation for this. It wasn't until I was a bit older that I realized life really should be celebrated. Surviving in this world another year is a big deal and it just feels good for the ones you love to let you know you're special to them. It's this that makes my own boys' birthdays such a big deal to me. It's a wonderful opportunity to take a break from the daily grind and let them know they are loved and life is worth celebrating. I'm glad my mother instilled this in me.
On the weekends my brother and I would soak up time with our Dad. Even if it was helping him with yard work or some other unpleasant chore we looked forward to just being with him after his long week away at work. He also seemed refreshed on the weekends most of the time and not as tired and stressed as he usually was during the week. After we'd been outside much of the day and Mom would call us in for dinner, Dad would challenge us to a race from the tool shed to the house. I'm not sure the distance, a few hundred feet or less, but my brother and I absolutely loved it and silently hoped each Sat evening he would suggest this particular challenge. I'm sure our faces lit up when he did. What I loved the most was that his face did. Usually he would let us win but sometimes he would run as fast as he could to the house, my brother and I mustering all the speed our little legs could, and I would look up to see my Daddy, out of breath at the front porch but smiling his big smile, brilliant teeth and all, as he watched us run to him. He didn't smile like that all the time and I loved it when he did.
On winter nights we would gather around the old wood burning stove letting it's warmth sink in to our bones and relax us from the inside out. The wood would crackle and glow and my Dad would warn us numerous times not to get too close. My brother and I almost dared the flying sparks to touch us...until one of them did. The brick mantle surrounding the fireplace was the central meeting place in our home in the winter. I wish it had recorded all the conversations we all had sitting in front of it. Like the huge oak tree in the front yard, it had watched Justin and I grow from babies to big kids, and I bet it could tell me a lot of stories I don't remember.
Those days were beautiful. I had an amazing childhood and as I've grown older I appreciate it more and more because I've met so many people who have not had a great childhood. I know I am blessed to have these memories and to have experienced love from my parents the way I did.
Things changed when I was about 11 or so. My grandfather passed away unexpectedly and with him the family that I had taken for granted also became part of the past. Still, I have two loving parents and brother who continues to be my best and most consistent friend. It was during this time that I turned to writing. I needed something to make sense of the world around me. I needed a way to release all the emotion that was choking out my logical thinking. Seeing my thoughts on paper helped me make sense of them. It was writing that helped me get to know myself. I could read my poetry, short stories and journal and figure myself out in a way.
I suppose that's what I'm doing now. I'll go back and read this later and feel or see something I missed when I was writing. I hope you will too. I think our stories teach us about each other and about ourselves. Each person who has ever shared their story with me has taught me something about myself or something about this world I never knew.
I will continue my story next week.
My childhood home no longer stands, but
Justin is restoring the property and has managed
to keep the mantel. I took this photo at sunset one
evening.