"Memory is a child walking along a seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things." ~Pierce Harris, Atlanta Journal
On my grandma's old pecan tree, the one growing between the pine tree that held our treehouse and the catterpillar tree in the front yard, there were old gold wind chimes. During the fall months the tree would cover the yard in pecans. The rest of the year it's usefulness was just to hold those chimes. But it was an important job. Because when the wind would blow, the chimes would play a perfect song, there on the front lawn.
And there would be my Gran, standing on the front porch, wearing her old straw hat and a dress that she had sewn herself. Pretending not to smoke a cigarette and humming a little tune, like Clair de Lune. One that she just finished playing on the organ that sat in the piano room. A song with no words, only music, fit pefectly for humming.
Mine was a childhood every kid should have been so lucky to have, one that included a Gran's house. Less than 50 steps from my house to Gran's. A place that was full of MASH episodes and old slides of trips to Alaska. Paul Harvey on the radio, betadine and bandaids in the bathroom cabinet for skinned knees, and Kit-kats in the fridge. A place that smelled of fresh baked cookies lots of afternoons and of popcorn on Sunday nights. A place where my grandma became mine and my brother's best friend. Where we would depart from to check cows, go to the bank or to pick peas. A place that was safe and happy and full of love and music.
Memory is a funny thing. Ask me about something I did or read last week and I'll struggle to remember any details. But even though it's been years since I've heard my grandma's voice, or sat with her and my brother to watch the antics of Hawkeye Pierce, or heard the melody of the old gold wind chimes, I'll never forget the music.
*Linking up with Rural Thursdays.
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