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When you drive by the ugly old house on the side of the road, some ten miles out of town; look to see if someone's sitting in the rocker or peering out the front door. Stop. You think; of all places, this is not the place a reasonable person would seek out. "Why here?" you ask. The answer slowly forms in your mind.
Wake in the morning, open the door and listen. Sure you will hear an occasional car or truck blasting by, but in the long gaps between, there is at first - silence. Then you realize it's not quiet at all. There are sounds every where. Perhaps just a door banging in a far distant building, a dog barking, a mule braying, cow lowing, rooster crowing. But there's more; listen closely and hear a fly buzzing against the glass (maybe this springs a remembrance of a big blue fly angrily seeking an exit from the long-gone, "two-holer" in the back yard.), the mild rustle of leaves in the tree and the drip of water somewhere from a faucet that can't quite be turned off. As your ears become accustomed to the sounds, now you filter out the above, and begin to discover yet another level. Perhaps it's the soft relaxing of the wood siding on the house as it warms to the day's heat or the crinkling sound of grass leaves as they give up their last traces of moisture. Or maybe it's Babe, having dug deep into the cool earth for respite from the heat is now in his burrow and softly snoring as only an old dog can.
As quickly as the quiet descended, other sounds intrude and your are reminded of where you are.
Look out across the yard. The distant pecan tree is alive with crows. It seems one has been chosen as sentinel and any movement catches his eye and yours as well. Although a half-mile away, his "caw-caw" is distinctly heard. Further off, the warming sun gleams off the sands of "sugar hill", a barren piece of land that seems forever distant. Then your eye moves to the clouds; nowhere on earth are the clouds equal to those that can be seen from this front porch.
Just outside the screen door, a dove works against the wind to bring a grass trimming to a low branch in the pear tree. Not satisfied with her first result, she moves the beginning nest to an inward branch-point that is more protected. Now she sits on an outer twig, bobbing in the wind. Is she looking for the cat, perhaps just taking a break from her activities, or?
You sense that today, like yesterday and the past twenty or so, is going to be hot. Already, dust devils dance across a barren spot in the field where a fertilizer spill rendered the earth barren for this season, but you take heart that next year, that particular spot will be green, a dark green with plants taller than any others in the field. Down the highway, a sheen on the asphalt gives the illusion of a mirage; a long deep river, smoothly flowing. Heat waves rise and distort your view.
But in the shade of the roof over-hang it's surprisingly cool. When the house was first built, before the age of evaporative coolers, ceiling fans, or air-conditioners the center-hall dividing the two sections provided an almost constant draft. Pleasant in the summer but bone-chilling in the winter.
In Texas you smell the heat, or rather the effects of it. The cut grass from which the dove carefully selected her piece of bermuda has the smell of coumerin, a pleasant, almost sweet aroma that in the early morning clings to the ground. You know that later in the day the goat weed, stink weed and others will contribute an acrid smell.
You feel comfortable although the temperature is approaching one-hundred degrees. The low humidity gives a body its own cooling mechanism as the "glow" of ladies, "sweat" of laborers, or "perspiration" of current-day folk achieves what God intended.
With an involuntary movement, your hand touches the door frame and you sense rather than feel the age of the wood, dry from a century of protection under the eves. Yet it retains a beauty, this pine probably came from a tree three feet or more across. No sap wood here, the close-packed dark lignin bands show through the thin paint revealing the multiple rings representing years of life. This was probably a first cutting from Nature's lush growth in the river bottom. The floor is of the same heart pine, hard; one can't drive today's cheap wire nails into this wood. Termites look elsewhere for their daily bread; the wood is too rich in phenolic compounds to be of interest. When first built, the house stood on rough sandstone pillars, more than two feet in the air. Even Noah could have not have designed better. But since no flood will ever reach these floors, why build the house so far off the ground? Could it be that some seven generations ago, the thought was that the chickens, dogs, pigs and other animals might seek protection and relief from the heat under such a shelter. In appreciation, more than a few hens and ducks concealed their brooding eggs in the loose sand until the hatchlings could emerge.
Not many years ago when the area was in the flight path of jets being tested for air-worthiness, sonic booms filled the air and this old house was bombarded. It shook but did not yield. The windows rattled, the dishes chattered but the house stood as one, unmoving.
You think, this house is like me. It has seen a lot of years, none bad, just some better than others. This is where I want to be.
Marcie
In the Summer of 1949, George and Marcie Prehler drove non-stop from Chester, Pennsylvania to Athens, Texas for their first-ever visit to the farm.
They drove a black Hudson, "the car you step down into", according to the advertisements.
After they were settled in George told me he would like to show me some pictures he had taken. They were of Marcella, and he had taken them with their new camera.
George said, "Your sister's beautiful!"
Now I was not going to question his judgement, but she was skinny, red-headed and had freckles all over her arms and legs.
He said, "Your sister's beautiful!"
And, George was right.
You can read "Marcie's Home" either way; her home or, Marcella Wortham Prehler came home to this not-so-ugly old house.
June 21, 1918 - August 1, 1999.
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