A memory comes flooding back. This weekend I had several moments that brought some of those ancient, forgotten or misplaced memories back.
Travelling across North Mississippi this weekend I listened to Rick Bragg reading “All Over But the Shouting”. Rick’s Piedmont accent was a moment of restoration and it brought back long pushed aside thoughts and recollections.
I instantly visualized the weeping willow and mom’s cannas in the backyard. My parents’ home was comfortable with three bedrooms, a kitchen, living room and one small bath. We had a basement housing a freezer full of food, toolboxes, a lawn mower and a shower for washing off the grime accumulated during a hard day’s work. The adventures of my childhood rushed in the window of our car as we drove.
Every young boy wants a tree house at some time or another. I was no exception. I remember the day dad brought home a couple of shipping crates to build mine. I never knew where the crates came from, and it did not really matter. My father had been a carpenter earlier in his life. The task of building the ultimate tree house was really an easy task for him.
Soon the job was completed and ready to inhabit. There were only a few trees in our neighborhood that even merited climbing, most were in my yard. A redbud and the willow were the easiest to climb. Saging limbs provided extra cover for playing games or army with my friends. A platform located above ground provided a great vantage point for any activity we decided to pursue. Our child-like imagination provided countless opportunities to become pirates on the high seas or Robin Hood in the quietness of Sherwood Forest. There were times it was used to only provide a thinking place.
It should come as no surprise that the neighborhood kids and myself would use my secluded perch to feed our vivid imaginations. As youngsters the willow would provide a respite from the hot Alabama sun. We continue using the tree house until we all grew to a point that our collective weight could not be supported by the limber limbs of the old willow.
Below the willow was a stand of cannas, mom’s pride and joy. The long stems and vibrant flowers gave the yard a flair of color. Wide and plentiful leaves also would provide great hiding places for hide and seek or kick the can. Sometimes the need to use the canna bed overwhelmed the plants breaking them both at the bottom or the top. Each fall I enjoyed assisting my father prune the cannas by cutting them down. I guess this satisfied a primal need to destroy a plant only to witness the rebirth the following spring.
Eventually mom and dad razed the tree and canna bed to make room for an addition to the house, adding a new kitchen, dining room, a second bath and a utility room to accommodate a washer and dryer and provide storage. The addition to the house was required as our extended family grew over the years. The playful tree and the beautiful plants had served their purpose. Our modest home became a gathering place for the family for special occasions. I still hear the voices of cousins, aunts and uncles in the back of my mind, but I still remember the wind rustling through the small leaves of the willow and the hack of the machete cutting the cannas to allow regrowth even more. Another cycle of life to begin each year, yet memories don’t need to be physical reminders when our recollections are so vivid.
Revisiting the house after the April tornadoes; none of the house, the willow or the cannas remained. Only the mailbox stood as a reminder of those times of innocence. But if you stand real still and listen carefully, you can hear the wind in the leaves and the swing of the blade. Home can physically disappear, but our mind recalls …...
