deep and wide

I've always wished I was one of those who could remember the smell of my stroller top, the blurry whirrings of my funky 70s mobile.  But no luck.  The farthest back I remember is when I was on the brink of two going on three. (And this is a guess. I was probably, most likely, just humdrumingly three.) It is the time my Mom and I moved home to Mississippi and made a nest at "The Little House," a house now overgrown and dilapidated.  As most memories go, they swirl together, and I think that is why when I walk in the Mississippi woods I feel so safely home.  The crunch of pinestraw underfoot year-round, the way the light filters through the trees.  Yesterday I was walking with Acey through the woods, she was holding on to my one extended finger in a concession to her tiny bit of dependence on grownups.  "I like that tree, it's a good tree, I love trees! Do you love trees?" she asked. 

"Yes, I do love trees," I replied. And I wonder if one day she'll dimly recall a pond covered in lilies, of throwing pine cones in the water one by one, of being lifted over a fallen tree.  Of chasing hundreds of bubbles with laughter all around her. Of singing a song about her feet as she splashes in the bathtub.

I remember lying in bed, chatting with my mother, as she buzzed away on her sewing machine.  My dad is in Korea, and it's just us girls. We did the co-sleeping thing, and I suspect it's why I still love to sleep with my mom.  Things are just safe with your mama in the bed with you.  The light was dim, the hazy night slant that sleepiness brings. 

Swinging on my swingset, the way the plastic cylinders wrapped around the chains.  A murderous yellow jacket stung me as I swung, as I grabbed the chains with that light hearted feeling that swinging gives you.  I feel deeply, terribly betrayed, I was just playing and it was mean of that yellow jacket to get angry with me. 

I am riding Clip Clop, my springing rocking horse, the squeak of the coils as I pretended to round up cows like Grandpa.  Clip Clop lived on the screened-in back porch, and I particularly remember when Paw Paw (my great grandfather) came over.  I know I should go inside and visit with him, but I would rather ride Clip Clop. 

Sitting on a church pew, I am fascinated with the painting of water coming down rocks.  We would sing "Deep and Wide," and I would invariably get the hand motions wrong and feel embarrassed.  I didn't go to church much as a child.  A wood panelled room, with other little kids, I feel out of place. I stand on a chair, being bad. At least there's Kool-Aid. 

One of Grandpa's dogs has puppies and I really want to see them.  Everyone keeps telling me no, no, not yet.  I end up crawling in the doghouse with Bootsie and emerge when I hear people calling my name.  Another day, I am bored, Grandma is visiting with her Daddy, a tall, thin man who seems to go up to the sky.  I sneak away and creep into the chicken house, watching them cluck and scratch.  I start yelling and stomping my feet, making a terrific racket, and then duck as chaos takes over.  Chickens fly everywhere, and I run out the opening into the fenced in yard, laughing.  I can see my Grandma on the horizon, running across the yard to me, afraid I'm hurt, her Daddy following behind her. 

Grandpa and I go "picking locusts." Locusts have descended and left their shells behind.  I have a bucket with a white handle, and happily pick the bug shaped shells off the tree trunks.  I'm intrigued by them, asking Grandpa to explain how it happens.  I don't understand it, but I like to listen to him talk.  For years afterward, I eagerly ask if locusts have come, and can we go pick them, like blueberries or figs.   

On and on, all these little bits of stories, of riding in farm-smelling trucks, of dogs' wet snouts and cows who endure my singing.  The common thread of knowing beyound knowing that I am safe, I am loved, I am beloved.  I have a place in this world; it's in a dirt lane patterned with my small sneakered feet.

Sunday Scribblings

 

 

Comments

[Paris Parfait]

Wow! What a lot of memories you capture here. Lovely!

[Thea]

I love the last few lines the most. This is a terrific trip down your memory lane...

XO

[bellabelly]

oh sam. this is such a beautiful story of a Mississippi childhood. mine was so, so very similar. my daddy wasn't in Korea, but was always working working working-- and my springed rocking horse was named nellie. but the picking locusts, truck rides, michevious capers, and kool-aid stained sunday school recollections-- these are all mine, too. no wonder we are such kindred spirits.

[Marilyn]

As Lawrence Welk used to say, "Wunnerful! Wunnerful!" I could SEE you. This was so sweetly remembered...and so beautifully written. xoxo

[Rebekah]

Your memories are amazingly specific for such a little girl - and make me feel the humid southern air and hear those locusts. Lovely - as usual.

[Tammy]

Such vivid, lovely memories! Thank you for taking me on the journey :)

[Laini]

What wonderful memories and beautiful flowing writing, Samantha. I'm so glad to have found your blog! Wondering about Acey's memories in the making was a nice moment, and also getting exciting about picking locusts, "like berries". For us it was irridescent Japanese beetles. And I also used to sleep in my mom's bed when my dad was deployed. she would read Stephen King books and be too afraid to sleep alone!

[tinker]

I could never get the hand-motions right on deep and wide, either :>)
I cracked up when you were stomping your feet to make the chickens fly and climbing in the dog-house to see the puppies - What a curious, adventurous soul, right from the start!
Thanks for sharing such great memories.

[Kimberly Fish]

hi! since I've stumbled upon you here on typepad, I'm mesmerized by your writings as well as secretly reading them.. (you had me at hello, on the entry of the pms mall 3-way mirror dressing room scenario) I felt as if I was reading about myself. and I've been hooked since.

This one is so nostalgic, i finally had to comment.. my Missasip childhood was very much the same. I had a bouncy rocking horse, called Clank or Mr.Clank, because that was the noise he made on my grams linoleum floor. clank clank clank. And i'd go harvesting locusts too. Those times are priceless. thanks for sharing yours. it made my day reading them.

I'm definately adding you onto my typepad daily blogs to read list. :) thanks!

[la vie en rose]

this was such a lovely and wonderful post to read...probably because it reminded me so much of my own childhood and visiting my grandparents every summer...

[violetismycolor]

wow, you have SO MANY memories from when your were little and they are so vivid, too. i'm going to have to try that. maybe i remember more than i think...

[liz elayne]

this is beautiful. beautiful. i love these glimpses into your world...the world of your early years. (clip, clop...i could just hear that...)

[christina]

Oh--so good to have internet again and to come here and read your scrumptious writing, ripe with sensory impressions and child-like moments of wonder. I too try to grasp at my earliest memories which are also swirled together...