"In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt." ~ Margaret Atwood

It's Thursday, March 22, 2018, and I say hello once again and welcome to my corner of the world wide web. It's quite the quaint place here at the ole blogger ranch. It's a type of recovery center for worn out keystrokes where they come to find a place on the page again. I've taken note how that many who follow my blogs enjoy me talking about my growing up days, the stuff of yesteryear, and those kinds of recollections. I've written before about some of my kinfolks who have been a part of my sojourn here on the planet. When I was a kid, fresh off the boat, so to speak, I recall going out to visit some of my grandfather's people. (I use that metaphor, fresh off the boat since we had moved to a tiny rural town from Port Arthur, Texas after my dad passed away.) We would load up in Paw Paw Mac's pick-up truck and head out to the country. (Might as well have been called the Outback.) We were headed for an area much more country than the small rural town we lived in. After several miles on the worn out blacktop road, we turned onto a red dirt road and made our way through the woods and over rickety bridges and we finally arrived at my grandfather's sister's house. I don't know if I had any idea what culture shock was, but, I do recall that everything there was different because these were people who lived, literally, off the land. Many years later, I understood that even though it was only a little more than 30 minutes away from town, this was as close to Appalachia one could get in that part of Louisiana.

I was maybe 8 at the time. For lack of a better way of saying it, compared to these folks I might as well have been a city slicker from New York City. They were always glad to see my grandpa. It was as if maybe he had made it out of the swamp. The house and fence were in pretty bad shape. Once we got inside my great aunt and the others fawned over me talking about how sad it was for my mom to be left with such a heavy burden to bear. I don't exactly know why, but, even at that age, I sensed that while we might be family, we certainly lived differently than these folks. We had running water. I don't think they did. We had a huge butane tank. They had a wood burning stove. They had electricity but the lights were dim as they had one bulb hanging down on a wire in the middle of each room. We had light fixtures. They were friendly, but, it was hard for me to pick up the dialect they spoke. Looking back, I'm pretty sure this was my first time to visit a foreign land. I remember every time we went, there was a lot of talk about medical problems and how they were waiting to get assistance from the government. I don't know how many families lived in that same house but it was several. I was paired off with some of the kids near my age and that was quite a learning experience for me. They were nice enough to me, even offering me a chew of tobacco and volunteering to roll me a cigarette too. No thanks. I had to pay close attention when they talked and even then I only caught a word now and then. They did seem to be happy with their life there, it being the only one they knew. They showed me around. We walked behind the house down to the creek. They took me through a couple of the nearby fields. They talked about how they helped to plow and plant. This too was part of my heritage.

Needless to say, I had no way of knowing at that time there was a young girl, 6 or 7, some 160 miles away, and she lived on a rural farm similar to my granddad's people's place. However, today, having direct knowledge of that girl's history, I recognize how she and her entire family can look back and be thankful for the faith, love, and family bond they experienced in that rural farm environment. They were poor, but, they often talk fondly of the foundations that were laid as they helped each other to get by, one day at a time. Don't get me wrong. They feel blessed that God's plan brought them out of that world into the one they enjoy today. Yet, they all have always shown a Godly pride in remembering their days down on the farm. For me, I was always glad to get back to our house after having visited our country cousins. When I would return, it made me appreciate the things I took for granted. We didn't have that much, but, compared to those folks living out off the red dirt road, well, we were more or less living like royalty. In my mid-teens, I was blessed to meet up with that same young girl who helped pick cotton as a tiny little kid. Today, after nearly 54 years of being married to that farm girl, I know that her life experiences helped make her into who she is. One thing I do remember from my visits out to our kin in the deep woods. They may have been poor but they always seemed to have coffee on the stove, chewing tobacco, snuff, and the items required to roll up a smoke. Those, I suppose, were deemed to be necessities. Like my Community Coffee. Yeah. I get it. How about you? Thanks for traveling along with me today. Lord willing, I will catch up with you next time. Until then, may God bless us all is my prayer. Amen. .....More later.