The Storyteller

“Every spring we visited my grandparents’ home nestled in the center of the dense pine woods of east Texas. We lived on the Gulf coast and the four-hour drive showcased an incredible diversity of landscapes within our home state.

“As we approached our destination, we’d roll down the car windows and enjoy the crisp pine-scented air. Back home you practically had to wade through the coastal humidity and I wouldn’t recommend taking deep breaths unless you enjoyed the aroma of rotting fish.

“My grandparents’ front yard was a vast display of bluebonnets, scarlet paintbrush and lemon buttercups. Pine cones generously sprinkled the ground. Amidst the majestic pines were dogwood trees, their fragrant white blossoms welcoming darting, ruby-throated hummingbirds.

“Squawking blue jays, cardinals and chattering mockingbirds swooped to and fro and at times dive-bombed us. We’d scream and run as fast as we could and then collapse on the ground in giggling puddles.

“Poppy was a carpenter and took pride in building fancy birdhouses modeled after Victorian homes. The birds, their beaks filled with twigs for nest building, cheerfully entered the gaily painted sanctuaries.

“Walking down the long driveway, fine red dust rose in puff clouds around our feet. Once I became old enough to think about it, I marveled that such a glorious abundance of wildflowers could grow in the gravelly iron-like dirt.

“To the right of the driveway, stalks gently blowing in the soft breeze, was our grandfather’s cornfield. I enjoyed walking through the corn, my small hand clasped in Poppy’s rough, gnarled one. My brother usually rode piggyback. My sister had allergies and tended to stay out of the field.

“The rustling and gentle whisper of the corn filled me with anticipation. Poppy would show us which were ripe for picking and we would fill a battered tin bucket with the pale green ears. I loved the downy feel of the corn silk which contrasted sharply with the rough texture of the husks.

“Jack made the cornfield special. He wore faded jeans and a green and black plaid lumberjack shirt on his massive chest. A wide-brimmed hat perched above his scowling, fearsome face. The crows weren’t scared of Jack. We often came upon the scarecrow as he played host to five or more of the grinning onyx pranksters. The disrespectful birds thought nothing of plucking the straw right out of Jack’s head and flying off to their nests.

“On the way back to the house, we always stopped at the barn. Made of huge, rough hewn logs, it had no door, only a huge opening in the front revealing its dank and gloomy interior. No animals lived there unless you counted the occasional slithering snake or scurrying field mouse. The creaking of the ancient weather-beaten harnesses for horses long dead, the creeping shadows and the moaning of the wind blowing through the barn evoked strong feelings of terror in me, but I knew my little brother would call me a sissy if I showed my fear.

“After our trip to the barn, I would skip up the back porch steps with the bucket of corn and into Sweetie Pie’s kitchen while my brother helped Poppy feed the goats in the pen. My sister was already helping set the kitchen table. We all had our chores.

“My grandmother would make a fuss over the corn, her blue eyes crinkling up in the corners. Sweetie Pie always wore a white apron, tied neatly around her plump waist. The mouthwatering smell of fried chicken filled the modest room and the ears of corn were soon husked and added with noisy plops to an immense pot of boiling water.

“We would all dig in to the crispy succulent chicken, steaming corn on the cob dripping with butter and moist sourdough rolls. My grandmother’s specialty was strawberry shortcake. She would always sneak me extra strawberries.

“Oh, my goodness. I’ve been talking forever. I’m so thirsty. Will you please get me some water?”

“Here you go, Mom,” I said, as I reached across the bed supplied by hospice and maneuvered the straw in the plastic water bottle to her lips.

My mother always had a way with words. I’m finally taking the time to listen to her stories. I hope I’m not too late to hear the rest of them.