Tonight while the blustery winds of winter are howling around my house, I needed to get away to a warmer place for a few moments as I did last spring. I’m beginning to think I should have a brand of coffee entitled, Sentimental Mountain brew.
With coffee in hand, I went out to the yard to inspect my small veggie patch. It is thriving beautifully and as I bend on my knees to prune the tomatoes from the bottom, the wonderful scent of the dirt captivated me.
I suppose, as always, any time spent in nature, I am driven to become that child again that staked her claim in the mountains long ago. And nostalgic memories begin to invade my thoughts. So pleasant are those thoughts that, like a screenplay preview, they reveal more than just a few moments in my mountain classroom, wandering wherever I wanted to go. The nostalgia painted a picture of my Momma in her suede heels with clappy rhythm tapping the sidewalk as we walked through town. My Momma was drawing her trademark for me with every deed she performed and with every touch of her hands. Those clappy heels, the beautiful face with Pond’s cold cream fragrance, the beautiful Auburn hair that she meticulously wound in pin curls and sometimes using those silver-colored wave clips. And then my nostalgic preview led me to the kitchen. Ah! The kitchen, where every chore she performed was infused with her love. The morning breakfasts in winter that included the cup of Hershey’s hot cocoa, the rattling of the pots and pans she would fill with homemade vegetable soup when we were sick and the tender touch of Momma’s hands as she rubbed our chest with Vick’s rub and the warmth of the piece of flannel to keep it in place.
And never forgetting those times when winter winds frosted the windows in my and Alma’s bedroom in the back of the house near the cliff. Momma would warm a wool Army blanket by the stove and then come and throw it across our bed for added warmth. I realize through these moments that Momma’s hands were transmitting a love deposited in our hearts for such a time as this…this morning. So, here I am again, wandering. And sometimes weeping. Reminiscing is good for the soul when those heartwarming thoughts run thru the mind. I embrace them as they speak to me and then I give thanks as I remember.
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