Sunday, August 29, 2010
I love talking to my grandmothers' at night, hearing there bedtime, scratchy voices. When I hear them talk, I remember being young and spending so many nights with them. Especially my Mammaw B. When I hear her "bedtime" voice, I am suddenly 7. Freshly clean, the scent of Zest soap on my skin. Long, wavy, half dried hair wetting the back of one of my pappaws huge white tshirts that I wore as pajamas. Full from a helping of cornbread and milk. Sitting in the floor watching Mammaw make me a pallet out of old, home made quilts in the floor next to her bed. Laying down, Pappaw would say "Night, Irene." I never understood, but I always loved it. I would get settled in my pallet and listen to the crickets and howling beagles out the open window. I knew that as soon as my grandmother woke up at the EARLY hour of 530 or 6, I would smell the scent of bacon and eggs; butter and 'lasses would be waiting for me. I would plan the next day in my head: Make mud pies for Pappaw outside, feed the dogs, throw rocks in the creek, watch a few cartoons, and eat lunch of either peas and other vegis or peanut butter and banana sandwich on home made bread. My biggest worry: Mom might come pick me up before my adventures were complete. Things were so much easier then. I think back to those beautiful times, and it actually makes me cry. The innocence is gone now. Nothing is quite so simple. I now have worries and fears outside of my realm of cartoons and mud pies. Sometimes I think that is just what I need. Forget therapy and antidepressants. I think I might just want my Pappaw to tell me "Night, Irene" and know that everything is ok in the world, cause I can still hear the crickets out the open window.