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Down memory lane on the banks of the Little Barren River

(from the Senior Quest Magazine story, Memories, by Geniece Leftwich Marcum)

I wish that I could once more wander down the dusty lane that led beyond the old grey barns, to the banks of the creek at my childhood home -- that I could see again the beauty my eyes always beheld in that place where I grew up -- the weather-beaten buildings, the rusted fences sagging beneath their burden of tangled honeysuckle and Virginia Creeper vines.



The fences had stood for more years than my dad had owned the land, dividing the farm into cropland and pasture, each plot with its own name. There was The Orchard and The Garden next to the house, and the New Ground beside the barn which Papa had cleared himself after he and Mama moved there around 1910.

From there the land stretched away to the East and North beyond the barns to form the New Ground as Papa called it, then the Tackey Wax Patch, the Old Pasture, The Dillon Bottom, Black Bottom, Sandy Bottom, Eight-Acre Bottom, all joined together to form the lower portion of the place, nearest the creek.

I'd love to stand for awhile on the banks of that stream, beneath the spreading branches of two giant sycamores hovering above the rocky ledge from which a troubled soul once stepped off into its icy waters to meet her death.

Or Perhaps spend another hot summers afternoon frolicking in the cool depths of that same quiet pool, which after her death, became known as the Dillon Hole. For so many years this was a favorite swimming spot for my family and other youngsters of the community.

It would be nice too, to tarry outside awhile in late evening with an old, old playmate, the echo that never tired of answering my shouts and shrieks, bouncing them back to me from the surrounding hillsides just beyond the creek.

But if there really was a way to turn back the years, first thing I'd want to do would be to go for a long walk through the open fields again with my sister, Daisye. We mostly gathered wild flowers on these outings. Our favorites, old field daisies, black eyed susans and whatever else we found blooming along our way. Wed go slowly, because my steps were much shorter then than hers, for I was little more than a toddler and she was seventeen.

More often than not, twilight would catch us before we returned to the house again. The kerosene lamps would all be lit by then and the soft glow of their light shining through the open windows beckoned to us from within.

The unforgettable smell of wood smoke from mamas supper fire would greet us. And drifting out to meet us came the aroma of the evening meal cooking on the stove. I know that of all the treasured memories of home, so dear to my heart, that if just once I could turn back the clock, this old familiar scene is the one I would choose above all others to revisit.

Those were the happiest hours I can recall. Because we were all still there together in that time -- before anyone married and left home -- before the war came and swept the boys away.


This story was posted on 2004-03-03 12:31:33
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