Just glanced up from iPad, in time to notice that Mike was driving past the farm where my maternal grandparents settled down to raise their family, in tne late twenties. Been out of the family for probably forty years now, sold to what you guys in the Midwest call a BTO.
It struck me that I am one of maybe six or seven people still alive, who are old enough to remember the Christmas suppers there, or walking back to the Nottoway River on the farm's back side. There was a small island there, covered with Lilies-of-the-Valley in season.
We older cousins used to crack open river rocks, by throwing them against an old, heavy metal wheel.. It was always a thrill to find flashy quartz or some fool's gold, inside a dull, nondescript water-worn stone.
The house has been long since torn down. They started it before the Great Depression, and never fnished the upstairs. The staircase in the front hallway was boarded off at the top. Climbing the rear one from the dining/ sitting room, we could reach the rooms that had the exterior clapboard showing its rear relief on the inside, against the rough faming studs.
The screened sleeping porch off that floor was deemed too dangerous for children; so, of course, we were drawn to it like moths to a flame. Between that, and the huge rock that lay right at the base of our favorite daredevil climbng tree, it is a wonder we all survived.
Just wistful today, I suppose. What are your best homeplace memories?.