Remembering

Remembering

REMEMBERING
by Toni Lamparter Mabry

She was a woman of virtue, the wife of a farmer, who raised nine children through The Depression. She worked the land and that was her pleasure. Even in my present memories I cannot separate the woman from her land.

I spent my life traveling from state to state, seldom living anyplace for more than a few years at a time. In one year I attended three different schools in three different states. In all my travels there was one place that was a constant in my life. That was the little farmhouse in middle Tennessee. This was a home to me, the place of summer vacations and Thanksgiving feasts.

Then she was gone. On a summer visit, just before autumn classes started, she fell unconscious into my arms. She never awoke, and I lost, not only the most influential of women in my life, but also the only home I had known.

In time that home fell into the hands of many and I regretted being shut out of a very small part of the place I once considered mine. It was the pain of loss that kept me from returning to the place of my childhood joy.

Many years passed since my grandmother died and now the land was in the hands of a developer. I knew soon everything would be destroyed and I had never even taken my own child there to climb the hills, to swing on a grapevine, or even wade a brook. It was this act of neglect and my desire to say my final good-bye to, both a place and a person, that prompted me to return to the farmhouse of my youth.

it's like a camp-out, I tried to sell this trip to my ten-year-old son. It will be fun. We'll cook out and go fishing. There will be lots to do.

Oh yea, sounds like great fun, Adam grumbled, unimpressed. His eyes never left the TV screen. He was intent on completing the maze and his fingers feverishly pushed the buttons on the control pad. I suppose I will have to leave my new game here.

We are going to be sleeping in an abandoned house with no water or electricity. You need to pack accordingly, I responded, sticking my head in the closet to look for the camping equipment.

I don't want to go, he said in a sing-song voice, eyes still on the screen. It sounds too b-o-r-i-n-g.

You are going!

Am not. I want to stay with Aunt Diane. She has electricity.

Part of the reason for planning this trip is to share a part of your family history with you. Don't you want to see the place your mother use to visit and where your grandmother grew up?

Not especially.

It was a long, quiet drive. Adam furiously played his hand-held video game, angry at me for forcing this trip on him. --So much for family bonding.

I hardly remembered the road I use to frequently travel. I remembered tree lined roads with a blind turn at nearly every bend. I did not recognize the patch of barren land that lay before me. Stripped bare from logging was the once green and fertile hill. Then there were two old wooden bridges and I knew the next turn would reveal the hollow, two barns, and the farmhouse. I was dismayed. The once neatly trimmed, house was left with little paint. The flower beds and rose bushes were nothing but undergrowth. Part of the wrap-around porch and one entire barn had fallen.

There it is, I announced with faint pride.

Which is the barn and which is the house my son asked, unimpressed.

Corn crib, I replied, ignoring the sarcasm. The building the left of the others was where the corn to feed the animals was stored. It's where we played when we wanted to get away from the grown-ups.

Then trying to escape grown-ups is nothing new?

Not hardly. I turned the car into what was once a driveway, almost expecting half dozen dogs to greet us and to see my grandmother standing on the porch. It was already sunset as we walked to the house. The boards creaked as we carefully walked up the porch steps.

Well water. Adam said, walking to the corner of the porch.

A cistern, I corrected, The pulley groaned as I pulled the rusty chain. You see--rain water is caught and collected in a cistern. You have to draw heavy pails of water to drink and bathe in." I explained. "People didn't need aerobics to keep in shape back then.

So much for the good old days. Adam brushed the rust from his hands onto his pants, but looking up at the sunset and added, I guess the view is worth the drive.

For the next few moments we silently watched the changing hues, listened to the chirp of the crickets, and enjoyed the soft breeze. Then there was darkness, unobstructed by any man-made light--only the moon, stars, and fireflies.

When I was little, I use to try to catch the fireflies. Adam sounded sad.

I won't tell if you catch them tonight.

Maybe both of us needed to escape to a simpler time. He walked to them, shyly at first, feeling a little silly, but then began to chase the insects with more gusto. For a moment joy returned to the hollow as a child's laughter echoed across the yard.

I laughed at a memory of my own childhood. My cousins and I once gathered around the lamp on the corner of the road. We were each armed with a broom, determined to hit the bats that came to eat the bugs that circled the light. Do you know it is impossible to hit a bat with a broom?

On behalf of all the PETA People, I am more relieved to know that, he said, laughing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Adam was already asleep as I lay still. I tried to doze off, but remembered the scarred land I passed to get to the farmhouse. It seemed like hours before I finally began to rest.

The sun was so bright it was almost blinding. I woke to hear the sounds of young children playing outside. Running to the back door I saw my brothers as I remembered them so long ago; hair shaved, short and jeans cut to their knees for summer wear. They were giggling, mischievously, chasing chickens across the yard.

Leave those hens alone or they won't lay eggs and we'll have no breakfast tomorrow.

I gasped upon hearing the voice. Crossing the yard was my grandmother as I remembered her, her white hair cut a little above her shoulders. She was wearing a cotton dress with blue print flowers, hem way below the knees, white apron, and white cloth tennis shoes. She saw me at the door and smiled her precious, toothless smile. There you are. I might send you to fetch your mother to get after your brothers if they keep chasing these poor hens.

Mother? I looked down at myself, skinny legs, wearing white socks and back and white oxford shoes. What's happening?, I asked

My grandmother walked toward me, still grinning, you wanted to come back home.

-But it's gone. I felt an ache in my throat as I said it. My vision clouded, I was lost in confusion. They sold it and the memory is gone.

It's not gone, her voice retained the same comforting sound I remembered. You are here now. I think your cousins are building a tent in the front yard. Greg is sneaking over to play by the bridge. He thinks I don't know, but I saw him out the kitchen window. She paused to look me in the face and sighed. You were always the moody one. Why don't you just go out and play for awhile?

I longed to do that one more time. Will you call me when it's time to feed the animals, I asked, disregarding logic. She nodded and I turned to run down the steps to join my cousins.

Toni, Grandma called. I turned to face her. You have this place. You know that, don't you? You can give it to your son. You will find the way.

My son? She had never seen him, but she somehow knew about him. I spent the day climbing hills and trees, then sliding down the grapevines. We played hide-and-seek in the tall, grassy field, and picked blackberries until we were covered in their sticky juice.

As evening drew near, my grandmother checked the flower garden as I followed by her side, astounded by her skills in growing beautiful plants. The smell of warm, damp soil on my hands always makes me think of her. Don't you put the twig in water first? I asked. No. She answered, then instructed me to dig a hole in the fertile, back soil. As she then put the cuttings in the ground she reminded me to, Get the soil nice and wet.

Later, my body aching, I climbed into the iron bed with the thick feather mattress that contoured to my body. I slid under the heavy patchwork quilt and felt a warm, womb-like, safe feeling around me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The floor felt hard and the air cold. I awoke, shivering in my sleeping bag. The dream seemed so real.

My son stirred in his sleep. I wanted him to understand why we were here, but even as he slept I knew that his mind was on Italian heroes running through mazes, fighting brightly colored monsters. Now was not the time for him, but eventually he would grow weary of beating his own high scores and he would want to know more about real life. Would I be there to tell the stories? Would I have the clarity of mind to remember them in all their vivid details?

She said I would find a way to pass the memories to him, but how? Suddenly I knew. Wiping the tears from my face I dug through the knapsack and found my spiral notebook and a pen. On the first page I wrote, FOR ADAM: WHEN YOUR READY TO KNOW.

On the second page I began. She was a woman of virtue, the wife of a farmer, who raised nine children during The Depression. She worked the land and it was her pleasure. Even in my present memories I cannot separate the woman from her land . .

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