Home does not change. Home for me is milk paint chipping from the magnolia heat of the screen porch. Knowing the coal black of the starry night is going to eventually soften to an orange burst of sunrise, and the shadowy purples that will wake everything on Gods green earth by a rogue rooster screaming and the smell of bacon rising up from a little cast iron skillet in the corner kitchen of a big farm house, turned over by the hand of a little farm woman with a great big spirit. It is turning over beneath the heavy wool blanket, upstairs in that long house, knowing that your someone else has been out there in the dark, tending and feeding, herding, milking...stumbling down the stairs to singing. And hot buttered toast. Eggs. Pine-Sol, and the German Shepherd on the back porch, wagging his tail toward the creek where you know youre going to spend the day discovering. Everything. My youth in the south is everything to me.
Posted on: Mon, 19 Jan 2015 03:26:10 +0000
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