Memories

Note: Best viewed in black and white through a hazy lens.

When I was a kid, we lived in town. Now "town" at that time was less than 8,000 people. They were people we knew as neighbors and fellow church members. A child couldn't really get away with much in those days because everybody knew your Mama. That fact, among others, kept me out of a lot of trouble.

It was safe for me to ride my bike to the library, where I spent hours in the cool building with the musty smell of old books and furniture oils, reading and going on imaginary adventures. The old library had no air conditioning, so the large windows would be opened from the tops and the bottoms to allow for circulation. The front door would be opened - there was a screen door to ward off the advances of any flying insects in the area.

The librarians were a couple of elderly single women - old maids, as we called them then. They wore support hose and corrective shoes, glasses suspended by chains around their necks, cotton dresses with lace collars, and they smelled of lavender.

All the furniture, woodwork, and floors were hardwoods rich with the patina of age. Brown ceiling fans helped stir the warm summer air around us, but no one ever seemed uncomfortable or hot at all. Flourescent lights in some areas were a sign of a more modern age, but other areas were still bare-bulbs fired up by strings that were pulled.

Sometimes I'd go outside under the huge oak tree, and read at the cement picnic table positioned to take the best advantage of the afternoon shade. The smells of rose bushes and cut grass mixed in my nostrils and made what I was reading only seem more real - stories about horses, mysteries, Greek classics, and more.

As I grew older, the library remained my favorite refuge. But I also expanded the places I loved to go. One of those places was the river. It wasn't far out of town and when I could drive, I'd spend a lot of time there with my friends. We'd swim. We'd fish. We'd lay on the sand bar and drink ice cold Cokes or eat watermelon. Sometimes we'd build a fire and burn some marshmallows or hot dogs.

There was a ferry that crossed the river back then. It only operated certain hours of the day, so we generally stayed on this side of the river. But sometimes, in the driest part of summer, we could actually wade across it to the other side in some places.

Along the banks of the river grew thickets and groves of wild plums. On the sand bars, you could find dewberries. Down in the bayou that fed into the river you could pick up wild pecans or okra - both remnants from days-gone-by when there were farms, homesteads, and plantations along the river. Old field roads were still there and some farming still went on - cotton and soybeans mostly. We could take the field roads to wilder areas. Even after I was grown and a young married woman, my Mother and I would head to the river in the spring to pick God's bounty that He so generously left in the wild.

Eventually, the Corps of Engineers built a system of locks and dams along the river. Where we used to pick wild fruits now stands a CofE park for camping and picnicking. Where we used to pick up pecans, there are now houses and a paved road.

My children will never know the adventures we had as youngsters down by the river. But they have made their own adventures. They've built tree houses and cut trails through the woods where we live. They've fought pirates and "bad guys" with swords made from sticks they found on the ground. They've turned a space in the hedges into a castle or a dream house. They've created fabulous desserts from the muddy spot under the swing. They've used the seed pods of the Red Bud Tree for play money, and a board across two bricks for the store.

Yes, I'd love to find a place to show my children how it used to be. They are nearly grown now, and they might get the full appreciation of their Mama's upbringing and life story by doing so. But even if I don't find that place, my words and memories can help bring it to life again for them.

It's up to you, too, to share these kinds of things with your own children. Share the pleasantries of your growing-up years. Share your adventures and your foolish errors. Pass along your family history. Let your children know that you, too, were once a child, a teen, a young adult. Not perfect, but growing with every day that passes. This helps them to know why you are who you are today, and who you will be tomorrow. Even share the horrors, if they occurred.

Every day of our lives up to today has shaped us and is part of us. We can let go of the bad, and thank God for the good. We can forgive those who have hurt us, and look for forgiveness from those we have hurt.

As for me, I'll continue to share my history with my children and with my grandchildren. And when possible, I'll try to help them create their own memories.