| General Fiction posted February 19, 2017 |
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Memories
Thomas Wolfe Was Right
by Delahay
It was so many years ago, but I remember it like yesterday. Time stretches so far into the past and continues into the infinite future. We can't see the future, we can only remember where we've been and what we've done.
I remember the air, the sweet smell of mimosa, the taste of Coca-cola. It was different then. I can feel the crunch of the crushed shells beneath my feet, the sticky, sharp smell of creosote from the railroad ties between the tracks. I see the wasps as they patrol the weeping willows and feel the hard metal seats of the folding chairs my uncle appropriated from some job site. There's the tangy, sweet punch my aunt made from grape Kool-ade and pineapple juice with orange slices floating on top. I don't remember her name, but I can still see the lady next door who minded everyone's business but her own.
I recall the cracked, gray shingles of the ex-military duplexes sitting on wooden blocks, and can still feel the soft feather mattress on my grandma's metal bed frame. I remember the scowl on the face of Mr. Wolf, as he came to collect the rent, with his .38 revolver a phallic reminder of his importance.
Then there was my uncle Norris's bright red, '48 Dodge pick-up with its ladder rack and spotlight, and uncle Robert's '52 Chevy sedan and its two tone green paint. Then there was Uncle Roy's black '50 Dodge Businessman's Coupe with no back seat, where I sat on his tool box. Across the street from my grandma's house sat the supermarket where I first encountered air conditioning.
I remember sitting on the front porch with my Grandma Harper, watching a storm front moving in, the kind you only see in Texas with huge purple and green clouds. We saw an awesome finger of destruction drop down, only to be recalled by God. I could smell the coming rain, foretold by the sharp tang of ozone in the air.
I can still recall the smell and feel of the crabgrass and clover that covered the sand, and remember searching on my hands and knees for a lucky four-leafed-clover.
I no longer see or smell or feel these things in my everyday life. Oh God, how I miss them! It seems as if I passed through some mystical door and now all the magic is gone. All that's left now are my memories of the short time I spent on the other side.
It is easy, now, to understand what Thomas Wolfe meant by, "You can't go home again".
It was so many years ago, but I remember it like yesterday. Time stretches so far into the past and continues into the infinite future. We can't see the future, we can only remember where we've been and what we've done.
I remember the air, the sweet smell of mimosa, the taste of Coca-cola. It was different then. I can feel the crunch of the crushed shells beneath my feet, the sticky, sharp smell of creosote from the railroad ties between the tracks. I see the wasps as they patrol the weeping willows and feel the hard metal seats of the folding chairs my uncle appropriated from some job site. There's the tangy, sweet punch my aunt made from grape Kool-ade and pineapple juice with orange slices floating on top. I don't remember her name, but I can still see the lady next door who minded everyone's business but her own.
I recall the cracked, gray shingles of the ex-military duplexes sitting on wooden blocks, and can still feel the soft feather mattress on my grandma's metal bed frame. I remember the scowl on the face of Mr. Wolf, as he came to collect the rent, with his .38 revolver a phallic reminder of his importance.
Then there was my uncle Norris's bright red, '48 Dodge pick-up with its ladder rack and spotlight, and uncle Robert's '52 Chevy sedan and its two tone green paint. Then there was Uncle Roy's black '50 Dodge Businessman's Coupe with no back seat, where I sat on his tool box. Across the street from my grandma's house sat the supermarket where I first encountered air conditioning.
I remember sitting on the front porch with my Grandma Harper, watching a storm front moving in, the kind you only see in Texas with huge purple and green clouds. We saw an awesome finger of destruction drop down, only to be recalled by God. I could smell the coming rain, foretold by the sharp tang of ozone in the air.
I can still recall the smell and feel of the crabgrass and clover that covered the sand, and remember searching on my hands and knees for a lucky four-leafed-clover.
I no longer see or smell or feel these things in my everyday life. Oh God, how I miss them! It seems as if I passed through some mystical door and now all the magic is gone. All that's left now are my memories of the short time I spent on the other side.
It is easy, now, to understand what Thomas Wolfe meant by, "You can't go home again".
I remember the air, the sweet smell of mimosa, the taste of Coca-cola. It was different then. I can feel the crunch of the crushed shells beneath my feet, the sticky, sharp smell of creosote from the railroad ties between the tracks. I see the wasps as they patrol the weeping willows and feel the hard metal seats of the folding chairs my uncle appropriated from some job site. There's the tangy, sweet punch my aunt made from grape Kool-ade and pineapple juice with orange slices floating on top. I don't remember her name, but I can still see the lady next door who minded everyone's business but her own.
I recall the cracked, gray shingles of the ex-military duplexes sitting on wooden blocks, and can still feel the soft feather mattress on my grandma's metal bed frame. I remember the scowl on the face of Mr. Wolf, as he came to collect the rent, with his .38 revolver a phallic reminder of his importance.
Then there was my uncle Norris's bright red, '48 Dodge pick-up with its ladder rack and spotlight, and uncle Robert's '52 Chevy sedan and its two tone green paint. Then there was Uncle Roy's black '50 Dodge Businessman's Coupe with no back seat, where I sat on his tool box. Across the street from my grandma's house sat the supermarket where I first encountered air conditioning.
I remember sitting on the front porch with my Grandma Harper, watching a storm front moving in, the kind you only see in Texas with huge purple and green clouds. We saw an awesome finger of destruction drop down, only to be recalled by God. I could smell the coming rain, foretold by the sharp tang of ozone in the air.
I can still recall the smell and feel of the crabgrass and clover that covered the sand, and remember searching on my hands and knees for a lucky four-leafed-clover.
I no longer see or smell or feel these things in my everyday life. Oh God, how I miss them! It seems as if I passed through some mystical door and now all the magic is gone. All that's left now are my memories of the short time I spent on the other side.
It is easy, now, to understand what Thomas Wolfe meant by, "You can't go home again".
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