The Fragrance of Home

My morning Manna and coffee. I have embraced two power packed words. Just as food labels indicate the RDA for necessary growth and nutrition, that's what manna from the Ancient Book imparts to me for spiritual growth. Those two words this morning are, Joy and Optimism. They bring purpose and meaning to our lives. If a cup is to be filled with those two attributes, I must first empty the dregs of doubt and discouragement.

So I'm lifting an empty cup this morning to be filled with Living Waters of Joy and Optimism. Joy fills my heart as I gather fruit and veggies in fall.

Several years ago as I prepared my grapes for jelly, the wonderful aroma of grape juice permeated my kitchen and gripped me with the warmest of memories and so I wrote:

Homemade Grape Jelly and Bread.

The Fragrance of Home

It was a late summer morning and I had been preparing everything necessary for my annual jelly making event.

On a mission and busily measuring, reading instructions and setting out all my gadgets for getting that jelly in to the pint size Mason jars,

It was a gorgeous morning! I had opened the kitchen window and the back door in order to enjoy basking in nature’s varied and seasonal exhibits that included sounds and pictures.

Are there moments when an aroma or a scent wafting across your path evoke memories? Those moments strike unexpectedly and have the potential to cause a momentary fog to dim your eyes. Such was the case for me that morning as those Concord grapes simmered on the stove making ready for juice and jelly. It was also the brown bean pot day at our house, so their aromas mingled and were carried thru the kitchen on the gentle breeze from the open door and window.

The sounds of late summer insects transported by the wind, along with the softly falling leaves that had served their purpose, only added to the sentimental, memory-stirring emotion. And then, The Fragrance of Home settled around me like the tender arms of a mother’s love.

I thought, “this smells like my childhood home!” I crossed my arms, gripped my shoulders to embrace the memory and a warm feeling enveloped me as I closed my eyes and replayed the picture of Momma’s kitchen.

Our house was simple, not tightly built, four rooms and a path. The coal fired majestic cook stove was where our Momma spent hours making her delicious Sunday meals and where the gigantic pot of brown beans simmered all day as we did the “wash”. Not the laundry, mind you, it was wash day.

I turned and saw the wooden cabinet with the flour sifter and the porcelain enamel surface that had been extended out where those delicious cakes and breads could be mixed.

Through the back door, I visited the porch, once again. It had been roughly enclosed with some sort of material to keep the winter winds out. That’s where we did the wash. The back porch is where we set up our pretend playhouse with cardboard boxes and whatever else the imagination created for a “house”

A rough lumber building called a box stored our supply of coal for the stoves and it set between the back porch and the cliff behind the house. Come closer, look right there, see that big block of wood with the ax leaning against it…well, that's where my chopping skills were honed, except on one occasion I did nearly cut a toe off. We just didn’t wear shoes most of the summer. That is... until we went berry pickin’, gathering those luscious blackberries Momma used for the jelly and jam that simmered on the coal stove and that she so meticulously preserved.

Yep! there was a strong scent of home early that morning; those aromas are like an automatic rewind button on a video player that allows you to watch the same scene repeatedly.

Those memories that transport you for just a few moments are very sweet; gathered as we lived, worked and played throughout the mountains of our West Virginia home. My endearing Appalachia

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