I miss my Dad and dirty Folgers coffee in the morning.
I miss the smell of bacon and pancakes.
I miss the smell of Grammas dusty house that is sinking sideways mixed with the scent of her cooking (fresh tomatoes in a pot from the garden).
I miss the sight of real canned goods and jellies, of bathtubs out on the lawn like recycled flower pots.
I miss dirt roads and bare feet, of creek beds and crawdads, of simplicity in struggle.
I miss the sound of the railroad and crickets at night when the sun goes down over the corn.
I miss the smell of flowers, not just any flowers, but the flowers of a spring in a place less fortunate. They push, they pull, they breed and die and come again every spring.
The smell of hot 105 degree summers only drenched down by sweet sugared sun tea from a glass container. I miss the taste of real ripe strawberries and honeysuckles that you have to be careful not to suck in the ants.
I miss the kiss and bite of sameness, never changing. And the old worn houses with their rickety porches with kids running around in torn jeans and used old shirts they got for free from some neighbor kid down the street.
I miss car races and speeding tickets in the speed trap that was my home.
I miss swing sets in the fall when the leaves came down to kiss your cheeks and winter waited to sneak up on you from around the corner.
I miss the breeze that brought dinner and the calling from my Grammas door, “Suppas ready!”
I miss the rainbow boy in the cemetery and the long walks to and from the yard. The snakes that hid under the boards and the sound of old dogs barking from every house and cats running free drinking warm milk from the porches of everyone’s house.
I miss rusty burnt out old cars in driveways and sideways without an ounce to live on. $5 salvage.
I miss napping in the sun on a worn out old quilt my great gramma made before I was even born. The taste of sugar bread and the taste of knowing that somewhere out there across the railroads and the by ways was a whole new world to explore. I miss the feeling that at any time Mom was going to come out and scream our names and I’d be the third one always, number three on the list and we’d go in for beans and cornbread.
… where the houses are all run down and tilt into the earth like an old graveyard. Where the stoves have to be lit by long wicked matches, a million readers digests from 1960 to 2006 lay piled up by an old rusted out heater, days of our lives plays on a t.v. with an antenna because cable can’t reach the small speed trap down in the heart of the Midwest. an old tire outside for a flower garden, a tub out back filled with soil that feeds the grape vines, rickety porches that creek and crack and screen doors that don’t shut without hooked locks. the smell of baked bread and cookies and candy that was made last Christmas. Doublemint gum and Andi’s candies, the old smell of churches and graveyards down gravel roads with cars that sputter and driveways that will rip off the end of your muffler if you drive too close to the curb where the rains wash through in the summer storms so the streets don’t flood over….