The Road Home

As soon as we turn down the wooded lane beneath the broad canopy of oaks and see, through the tunnel like opening at the end, the two story white house with the sweeping porch, I am overcome with a rush of deja vu.

"I've been here before," I say. "It's so...familiar."

We park along the short circular drive, right behind a bright yellow Ford pick up truck that has seen better days, and unfold ourselves from the car. My legs had begun to ache in protest at being confined for so long in the tight, cramped space beneath the dashboard. It feels good to stretch.

There are eleven steps leading up to the house, up to the wide expanse of porch that hugs the first story in a protective embrace while, at the same time, welcoming guests with the open arms of gracious rocking chairs and soft green ferns. The porch's ceiling is painted a pale sky blue, and the total effect is exactly as intended. A gentle netherland, neither fully outside, nor fully in; a place of its own.

__________

I remember kneeling at the table on the porch, coloring contentedly. I remember the red canvas Keds, the green gingham checked jumper, and the pull of the rubber band holding my ever present top knot in place, brown curly hair sprouting like a fountain from the crown of my head. I remember the coal barge gliding past, the resounding horn blaring hello in response to my furious waving from the top of the river bank. I remember tomatoes on the vine, red and ripe for the picking. I remember my grandpa's poodle, Tina, snoring in his lap as he rocked gently, back and forth, back and forth.

I remember my grandmother coming outside, the metallic slam of the kitchen's screen door announcing her. I remember her leaning over to kiss the top of Grandpa's head, earning a smile from him and a growl from his "other woman". I remember the taste of the Coke float, creamy vanilla ice cream melting in the soda pop, a frothy sugar high in a glass. I remember climbing up on the wrought iron couch and propping myself snugly up against Grandma's side, squeezing just so under the softest spot of her arm. I remember the scent of White Shoulders.

It always takes me home.

__________

The house seems eerily quiet; an instinctual defense against the stifling humidity. The slightest movement would only encourage the wet, weighted heat, forcing an unasked for lethargy. Better to beat the heat at its own game, choosing stillness, almost out of spite.

We sit in the rocking chairs closest to the broad carved railing, and add our own quietude to the cacophony of silence, waiting. I close my eyes, listening for a minute or two to the memories singing softly in my head. The screen door opens, and with my eyes closed, I can almost see my grandmother standing there, eyes twinkling, looking out.

"How about some nice lemonade?" Three tall, sweaty glasses appear out of my reverie, an oasis of sweet relief right before my eyes.

"Mmmm. Good stuff," he says, clinking his glass against hers in an expression of gratitude. "Not too sour, not too sweet, and ice cold. Just about perfect, I'd say."

She nods, smiling, and eases herself into the rocker directly across from me, settling into a smooth back and forth motion.

We sit a while, sipping lemonade, rocking in harmonic silence.

__________

I remember a Sunday drive to the old home place, a car ride that seemed to take three weeks getting there and three minutes coming back. I remember the open fields, as far as the eye could see, or at least to the foothills of the mountains draped like a scenic backdrop fit for a sweeping epic of a tale. I remember feeding a baby goat from a bottle, and his gripping the nipple so hard, it was everything I could do to keep my hold on it, keep him from running off, bottle and all dangling from his little goatee mouth.

I remember riding on the back of a tractor, scared half to death, but more afraid of not taking my turn and suffering the ridicule of my cousins. At least the boy cousins, and seeing as they outnumbered us girls six to two, it was a fear with some built in legitimacy attached. I remember picking rhubarb, sticky stalks I'd never seen or heard of before. I remember my first bite of strawberry-rhubarb pie, hot from the oven, washed down with the ice coldest glass of milk I'd ever tasted.

I remember hearty good-byes, all around.

I don't remember ever going back.

__________

"It was so nice of you kids to come out here to pay us a visit," she says, as we start to make motions toward taking our leave.

I smile. I haven't thought of myself as a "kid" in forever and a day, but from the perspective of 87 years on this earth, I suppose she's got it right.

"Thank you for having us," I say. "It's been a lovely day."

"Help me get myself up out of this fool chair, will you?"

I reach down, place one arm around her thin shoulders, one hand steadying her sharp elbow, and help her to her feet. She grabs me in a hug, and I catch the unmistakable scent of White Shoulders mixed with old age, a familial signature scent these days, clinging to her neck.

"I have a little something for you," she says, wagging a finger in my direction. "Don't go running off just yet."

I turn to look out over the fields. They seem smaller now, and overgrown. The mountains have moved in closer to the house, which has shrunken a bit with age itself. The barn looks weary, as if a strong glance might be enough to knock it over, and I see no sign of a tractor or a baby goat. Just an old hunting hound sleeping in the burrowed out ground beneath the massive hostas thriving at the base of the porch steps.

I hear the metallic slam of the front screen door and turn to face her.

"Here we are," she says, holding a small envelope in her tiny, world weary hands. "I hope you'll like these. I think they belong with you."

I open the envelope and slip out the photographs. A young woman with her whole sepia toned life ahead of her looks out at me from one of them, eyes twinkling, a sassy smile dancing on her lips, a hand on one hip that appears to be sashaying even in still life.

"See what she wrote there? On the back?"

I flip the picture over, and there, written in my grandmother's fancy flowing script are the words, "Don't get any wrong ideas, but aren't I the wild one?"

"You look just like her, you know."

Smiling through the lump in my throat, I nod.

Then I reach to hug her tight, once more.

For the road.

The one that always takes me home.

__________

* Reprised.  

Comments

[Kim]

Oh my goodness. I have been steeping in the humidity and memories all this time, and loving every minute. It's really something to read it at this time of year when my toes are cold--I was still absolutely transported.

[Mary]

Very engaging. Loved it.

[Roxanne]

Thank you for taking us home with you. I can practically here the "fool" chair creeking and experience the rush of the road home with you.