Coffee and Contemplations

When seasons change, I find myself taking a sentimental journey to surround myself with the warmth that memories from long ago bring.

And it doesn't take much to spark a childhood memory; certain sounds or fragrances can cause to bubble up in my soul, heartwarming reflections of my Appalachian Mountain home.

As hubby and I rode our bikes on the local nature trail on a very late summer day. I heard faint chirping of crickets beneath the now fading, fall influence of the woods. Birds were flitting about and I was able to recognize the Sparrow’s chirp, the Cardinal’s beautiful song and the Blue Jay’s loud squawk There was a lingering fragrance of the Honeysuckle vines, the Mountain Phlox and the damp earth beneath the beautiful mature trees presented its own woodsy addition to compliment the scents of nature. The sounds transported me to the summer days of my youth. That time in the mountains when we had been freed from classroom confinement; we exchanged the smell of the chalk dust on the blackboard and felt erasers resting in the tray, for the wonderful mountain potpourri of damp earth and blooming pink Mountain Laurel shrubs graced by wildflowers, dressed in orange and Scarlet red.

It was not just one experience of summer activities capturing my thoughts. My reminiscence as those bike wheels rolled, was weaving many scenes once again. I was traveling across the winding, rugged road on the side of the mountain as I made my way to my childhood home. Each of us from those mountain and coal camp homes can warmly remember "the times" of our childhood and youthful experiences.

You're welcome to come along and listen as I tell you of my mother's touch.

Stand nearby and peer over my shoulder as I write with warm and sentimental reflections. Once winter has stretched in to spring and then summer in the mountains, we are loosed to wander where the cold stream of water runs, babbling over sharp and smooth stones.

Summertime Reflections

I saw my Momma and me headed into town. I was ten years old. And those black suede high heels my Momma wore were, like an old typewriter, tapping out another memory. I wondered how she managed to walk up and down that rough road to our house in those heels. We had to walk down that mountain to get to the bridge where the Consolidated bus lines stopped for passengers. As a young child, I never gave thought to what it took to be a mother in those days but as I enjoy today’s modern conveniences, I recognize that my Momma was a woman of strength.  So, from that experience of the bike ride, I felt the promptings to capture more of the memories of my childhood written on my heart with permanent ink. I capture the scenes again and translate them, letting the pictures flow from my pen. So, I write:

Pond's Cold Cream, Vegetable Soup and Applications of Love.

The clapping sound of her suede high heels hitting the pavement as we made our way to the beauty shop for my perm. We rode the bus into town for this trip. After my hair had undergone the transformation from straight to curly, we ventured on to the drugstore counter where Momma ordered our grilled cheese sandwiches and cherry smash to drink. Once we finished our brief lunch, it was back to the bus terminal for the ride home. As children, we don’t realize the memories in the making; the preciousness of time with mother or dad who are investing in us thru our formative years. It’s those sounds, like the clapping of a mother’s heels on the sidewalk, the beautiful fragrance of her Pond’s cold cream, and yes, on days when she is investing time and energy in producing clean clothes, we get a whiff of the Tide laundry detergent, the Fleecy White bleach or the little block of Satina she used in the starch to make smoother ironing. In glancing back, I’m reminded that the most powerful presence of my Momma was her touch. Her touch when we were sick. She was quick to bring out the home remedies, like a big pot of her vegetable soup, or a drug store purchase of whatever was needed, sometimes it was Camphorated oil for croup or Vick‘s VapoRub across the chest and covered with a piece of warm flannel. Little did we know or fully understand, that beneath the outstretched hands that applied the medicine, from deep within her soul, the mother’s love was being transmitted across our lives and imparted into our spirit. Unsurpassed, love. That’s the fragrance that lingers but it is also mingled with the clapping sounds of high heels that lead me to a beauty salon and drug store counter for that delicious grilled cheese and Cherry smash. Thank you, Momma.