Sweet Florida Memories On My Mind
Leigh Ann Kingston
©
Copyright 2024 by Leigh Ann Kingston
|
Photo courtesy of the author. |
My
feet are firmly planted on Texas soil, yet a piece of my heart
remains back in Florida where I was born. I spent the first three
years of my life in a small rural town near the banks of the Suwannee
River. Naturally, I have no memories of that time, but the years that
followed provided me plenty as my family and I made annual trips back
to visit our loved ones.
The
excitement felt each time we neared my dad’s old home place
could hardly be contained within the confines of our car! Even
without a map, my brother, two sisters, and I knew our destination
was not far when the Spanish moss appeared, draping the massive live
oak trees. Along the last stretch of miles, Daddy pointed out places
that held special meaning, repeating stories of his own childhood. We
never tired of hearing him recall his adventures and tales of
mischief.
Enthusiasm
grew with each passing field containing neat rows of leafy-green
tobacco plants, until at last we spotted the old country store, and
beyond it the weatherworn home of our grandparents. Our car pulled
onto the sandy driveway as family gathered to greet us. We’d
move to the comfort of the screened porch and share light
conversation and details of our trip until we all felt reconnected.
As the sun set on the day, the cicadas would join in with rhythmic
chirping.
How
I loved exploring Granny and Papa’s old house during our stay.
The floors creaked beneath me as I wandered through the rooms. Papa’s
study and a small bedroom flanked the front porch. Then a long, wide
entryway led to all the other rooms: a living area, which always held
a fancy glass candy jar full of peppermints or butterscotch; his and
her bedrooms for my grandfather and grandmother; and a dining room
with a large oak table and a china cabinet holding an abundance of
pretty glassware and dishes.
I
recall one particular time when my sisters, cousins and I helped
ourselves to some of the delicate crystal glasses, filled them with
water and drops of red food coloring, and sat at the table pretending
to drink sherry. We felt so grown up!
The
kitchen adjoined the dining room, and it often sent forth delicious
aromas of fried chicken and hot, buttery yeast rolls, drawing us
around the table time and time again. The hot and humid room was made
tolerable with an old oscillating fan Granny kept on the Formica and
chrome dinette table.
The
bathroom, at the end of the entryway, had sheer ruffled curtains that
moved softly in the summer breeze. A large clawfoot tub stood in the
corner, and Granny’s vanity, near the window, held her face
powder and other beauty aids. I’d sit on the dainty stool and
pretend to get ready for a beauty pageant.
A
narrow stairway led to an attic containing treasures of old books,
toys, clothes, and my favorite, a well-used wicker baby pram. We had
to be accompanied by an adult up the stairs, so the begging would
start the first night of our arrival. To this day, I fondly remember
the musty smells of my grandparents’ attic whenever I walk
through an antique store.
My
aunt and uncle lived nearby and farmed tobacco, and they were often
in the midst of harvesting their crop when we arrived. Work continued
as they invited us to join in the family operation. The weather was
hot, and the tobacco leaves sticky, but camaraderie between the
workers, and my aunt’s wonderful meals, made it all worthwhile.
And at the end of the day, we’d sometimes load up in a pickup
truck and head to the nearest springs to cool off. The reality of the
ice-cold water usually kept me standing on the bank until I finally
worked up my courage and took the plunge. Then I screamed with shock
as my body adapted to the chilly temperature. The adults tossed
watermelons into the water to chill and sliced them on the tailgate
after we swam. Seeds and juice spilled down our chins and onto our
swimsuits, but we’d jump back in and wash it all away.
Daylight
faded into evening, and the cousins headed to our grandparents’
yard, running barefoot and catching fireflies in mason jars or
playing kick the can or tag. We caught bits and pieces of the adults’
conversation drifting from the porch, telling stories and laughing
without a care. Their joy made us feel safe and secure.
If
time permitted, we took an excursion to a nearby beach. It was a
fishing-camp atmosphere, with old frame houses on stilts and scrubby
palm trees. There wasn’t much to look at, but we came to dive
for scallops, not for the view. We’d take the boat out at high
tide and jump into the water with fins and snorkels, searching for
scallops as if hunting for Easter eggs. We’d catch our limit
and haul them back to the beach to clean and fry up for dinner.
There
was an old pier that we loved to run down and cannonball into the
shallow, clear water. We could easily see sting rays scooting along
the sandy floor, and I was so scared, I tried not to touch the
bottom. I’d tread water for as long as I could, and then climb
the rickety ladder back onto the pier and lie there in the sun
feeling the water evaporate off my skin.
The
days, too, would evaporate, and it would be time to head home. Once
again, we gathered to say our goodbyes. Hugs were exchanged, and a
few tears shed, and a familiar ache in my heart resumed. We were back
on the road to our regular lives, only we were better for those
special moments in time.
Way
down upon the Suwannee River,
Far,
far away,
There’s
where my heart is turning ever,
There’s
where the old folks stay.
(Old
Folks At Home, Official state song of Florida)
*****
I
live in Texas with my husband, two dogs, and a cat. We have two grown
children. I’ve loved the written word since childhood and in
the last few years started penning stories about my family to
preserve treasured memories. I have joined two writing groups and
feel very grateful to be around such gifted authors and editors.
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