I recently ended the final chapter on the book of my youth. The time had come for me to sell the old home place in rural Harnett County, N.C. where I spent most of the days and nights of my growing up years. At the end, the old place wasn’t pretty. The old farm house hadn’t been occupied for years and it was rundown, paint chipping off, windows broken by vandals, the yard chest-high in weeds and the old barn out back ransacked by pillagers. The fields on either side of the house which had once been bountiful gardens were now thick with underbrush, briers and saplings.
As I made my final visit to the old place, memories of my boyhood flooded back. I remembered the sounds and feel of a hot summer’s night there. At night you could hear a cacophony of frogs, crickets, a distant hooting from an owl and whippoorwills singing in the trees close by. With no streetlights and the closest neighbors a quarter mile away—it was dark outside! You could look up and see a sky full of twinkling stars.
My dad had grown up on a farm and could grow anything. So not surprisingly our place had a big strawberry patch, several grapevines, as well as apple, plum, peach, fig and pecan trees. Our garden was always chock-full of tomatoes, corn, butter beans, snap beans, cucumbers, squash, okra, potatoes, peas, watermelons and cantaloupes. That garden served at least two purposes for my dad—it furnished our family (and others) with plenty of fresh vegetables-- and it provided plenty of hard work to keep a young boy busy. It also gave me a lifetime appreciation for watching things grow.
When I walked into the old kitchen I remembered my sweet mama making her famous (to the family anyways) chow-chow. When she made it—the pungent smell of onions, green and red peppers, green tomatoes, cabbage, and a vinegar base would permeate the whole house. I also recalled that Mama was a master at throwing together a meal from scratch or leftovers. If unexpected company showed up at meal time, and back in the old days they often did, she could produce a great meal in nothing flat. Every Saturday night she made a cake and every Sunday, she like many of the women of that time, cooked a full Sunday dinner with Southern fried chicken, homemade biscuits and all the fixings. I also realized that my mama cooked three full meals every day, that’s just the way things were in that place and time.
As I walked into the living room, I could see the huge old black and white TV where we regularly watched shows like “Gunsmoke” on Saturday nights and “Bonanza” and “The Ed Sullivan Show” on Sunday. We only got two channels which at the time seemed like plenty.
That last visit a few weeks ago to the house, the barn, the fields, brought back so many memories, most of them good. It’s sad to know that now the old home place is out of my life forever—except for that special place that exists in our hearts and minds, where our childhoods live forever.
As I made my final visit to the old place, memories of my boyhood flooded back. I remembered the sounds and feel of a hot summer’s night there. At night you could hear a cacophony of frogs, crickets, a distant hooting from an owl and whippoorwills singing in the trees close by. With no streetlights and the closest neighbors a quarter mile away—it was dark outside! You could look up and see a sky full of twinkling stars.
My dad had grown up on a farm and could grow anything. So not surprisingly our place had a big strawberry patch, several grapevines, as well as apple, plum, peach, fig and pecan trees. Our garden was always chock-full of tomatoes, corn, butter beans, snap beans, cucumbers, squash, okra, potatoes, peas, watermelons and cantaloupes. That garden served at least two purposes for my dad—it furnished our family (and others) with plenty of fresh vegetables-- and it provided plenty of hard work to keep a young boy busy. It also gave me a lifetime appreciation for watching things grow.
When I walked into the old kitchen I remembered my sweet mama making her famous (to the family anyways) chow-chow. When she made it—the pungent smell of onions, green and red peppers, green tomatoes, cabbage, and a vinegar base would permeate the whole house. I also recalled that Mama was a master at throwing together a meal from scratch or leftovers. If unexpected company showed up at meal time, and back in the old days they often did, she could produce a great meal in nothing flat. Every Saturday night she made a cake and every Sunday, she like many of the women of that time, cooked a full Sunday dinner with Southern fried chicken, homemade biscuits and all the fixings. I also realized that my mama cooked three full meals every day, that’s just the way things were in that place and time.
As I walked into the living room, I could see the huge old black and white TV where we regularly watched shows like “Gunsmoke” on Saturday nights and “Bonanza” and “The Ed Sullivan Show” on Sunday. We only got two channels which at the time seemed like plenty.
That last visit a few weeks ago to the house, the barn, the fields, brought back so many memories, most of them good. It’s sad to know that now the old home place is out of my life forever—except for that special place that exists in our hearts and minds, where our childhoods live forever.
