September is the month when children return to the hallowed halls of education to rejoin their friends for another nine months of lessons. No matter my age, I still feel the urge for back-to-school preparations. The arrival of September brings with it a sense of urgency. It feels like a time of renewal or the beginning of a new cycle. Continue reading “Feeling Nostalgic — A Rural School Experience”
I recently encountered a humorous individual who claimed to enjoy “spelunking, knitting and tatting“. A curious combination of pastimes, I thought. I don’t meet many people who tat and even fewer who spelunk. My grandmother actually taught me how to tat on an ivory shuttle. She and my grandfather lived on the farm next to my childhood home.
Their farmhouse was simple by modern standards, but in my eyes, it was a wonderland of discovery. A screen covered veranda hugged the front and side of the house. I found it infinitely impressive that one could be both indoors and outdoors at the same time. A walkway lead from the gravel lane to the backdoor. Just outside that door, imbedded in cement, was a bootscraper. Before going inside, the bottoms of boots were dragged along its dull metal edge to clean off clods of earth collected throughout the day.
I recall the mudroom and wading about in my grandfather’s rubber boots. My grandparents’ jackets hung in rows from wooden pegs and smelled of honesty and hard work. Their sleeves tickled my face when I ran along the wall. A trapdoor was cut into the sandy plank floor. Beneath the weight of its metal pull ring lay a mystical place where children weren’t allowed. The root cellar was damp and musty, its walls lined with dusty jars of canned tomatoes, pickled crabapples, beets, and chile sauce. Wrinkly potatoes sprouted roots through burlap bags.
A memory is returning to me now of cucumbers in a tall ceramic crock pot, floating in salty brine. My grandmother wearing an apron, her cheeks flushed with exertion. One of those crock pots lives in my home now. Instead of pickles waiting to be born, it holds umbrellas wishing for rainy days.
The kitchen was snug but no one ever minded. The window above the sink looked across a cornfield flanked by woods. There was always an African violet on the windowsill and another plant, a succulent, whose name I can’t remember. It looked like strings of green pearls tumbling from a pot.
There were hyacinth glasses and forced bulbs to mesmerize me as well. Their roots waved through the water like translucent hair.
Of all the images this exercise of remembering conjures, it is this one that causes the lump in my throat to rise and the tears to come.
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