There is the South we grew up in, of home gardens lush with
tomatoes and melons and other wonderful vegetables and fruits, of home-made
jams and jellies, of peach pies, and fried chicken with gravy. The South with warm summer nights filled with
chasing fireflies (we called them lightening bugs). The South with hot summer nights filled with
lying on old quilts on the grass, seeing the millions of stars now invisible
because of street lights and all the other ambient lights of modern life. The South of clean sheets drying to
sweet-scented freshness on clotheslines.
The South of crape myrtle trees of amazing fragrance and vivid colors
that bloomed all summer long. The South where
the mothers made up a magic potion of sugar and fresh eggs and milk and cream
and vanilla and sometimes peaches or strawberries, and the fathers chopped ice
from big blocks from the ice company and layered that ice with rock salt in ice
cream churns and then turned the handles to make frozen magic. The South of porches and rockers and great
aunts and uncles and grandparents, everybody keeping an eye on the children
while they played hide and seek to the last possible glimmer of day falling
into night.
But there was also that other South back then, the one where
restrooms and water fountains separated black from white, where some folks had
to ride in the back of the bus and some did not, where some folks had to live
in a different part of town.
No comments:
Post a Comment