Sometimes a story to get away for a while. These stored reminiscent writings during the last years have served a good purpose for me even though they're repeated sometimes.
I lifted the kitchen shade to a beautiful, steel gray canvas, slowly revealing the dawn of a new day. Poured another cup of my morning coffee to accompany the reminiscent scenes on my mind. Last evening, I decided to review some video recording of our trip in early spring of 2019. A very fragmented recording, but, oh, the memories.
Have thought about how my sentimental self was captivated when I replayed those clips. Briers were wildly taking up their space in that mountain dirt. Beautiful and dainty wildflowers were not intimidated as their emergence created a wonderful sight.
This thought, then, takes me back to a day several years ago when it was time for my jelly making, when the whole
experience engulfed me with such a stirring pause to reflect…reflect on a day from my childhood home.
Are there moments when an aroma or a scent wafting across your path evokes memories? Those moments strike unexpectedly and have the potential to cause a momentary fog to dim your eyes. Such was the case for me that morning as those Concord grapes simmered on the stove making ready for juice and jelly. It was also the brown bean pot day at our house, so their aromas mingled and were carried thru the kitchen on the gentle breeze from the open door and window.
The sounds of late summer insects transported by the wind, along with the softly falling leaves that had served their purpose, only added to the sentimental, memory-stirring emotion.
And then, The Fragrance of Home
I thought, “this smells like my childhood home!” I crossed my arms, gripped my shoulders to embrace the memory and a warm feeling enveloped me as I closed my eyes and replayed the picture of Momma’s kitchen.
Our house was simple, not tightly built, four rooms and a path. The coal fired majestic cook stove was where our Momma spent hours making her delicious Sunday meals and where the gigantic pot of brown beans simmered all day as we did the “wash”. Not the laundry, mind you, it was wash day.
I turned and saw the wooden cabinet with the flour sifter and the porcelain enamel surface that had been extended out where those delicious cakes and breads could be mixed.
Through the back door, I visited the porch, once again. It had been roughly enclosed with some sort of material to keep the winter winds out. That’s where we did the wash. The back porch is where we set up our pretend playhouse with cardboard boxes and whatever else the imagination created for a “house”
A rough lumber building called a box stored our supply of coal for the stoves and it set between the back porch and the cliff behind the house. Come closer, look right there, see that big block of wood with the ax leaning against it…well, that's where my chopping skills were honed, except on one occasion I did nearly cut a toe off. We just didn’t wear shoes most of the summer. That is... until we went berry pickin’, gathering those luscious blackberries Momma used for the jelly and jam that simmered on the coal stove and that she so meticulously preserved.
Yep! there was a strong scent of home early that morning; those aromas are like an automatic rewind button on a video player that allows you to watch the same scene repeatedly.
Those memories that transport you for just a few moments are very sweet; gathered as we lived, worked and played throughout the mountains with carefree abandon. And we cherish every moment spent in those rugged mountains of our West Virginia home.
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