Nostalgia: “a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.”
Last Friday, I had the opportunity to ride through my little map-dot hometown. Thankfully, it’s in a neighboring county, so only about 15 miles away. And it doesn’t happen often, but as I drove through there last week, I was hit with a sweet wave of nostalgia.
And I was reminded of this blog post I wrote back in 2011. Most of you have seen it, because I’ve re-posted it a couple of times. But I just felt compelled to share it once again, perhaps more for me than any of my readers.
Where I’m From
I am from silos and linoleum floors and rural free delivery; from a tiny Zenith black and white tv, Barbie dolls and Beatles records.
I am from a white house beside a pond, where the frogs sang me to sleep on summer nights; where the scent from a nearby dairy farm was simply bovine.
I am from the jonquils and irises along the fence row, snaps, butterbeans and corn from Mama’s garden, and Sweet Williams and peach-colored gladioli from Grandma’s yard.
I am from family reunions the first Saturday every August, and aunts and uncles sharing stories of their childhood at Bacon’s Castle; from a Mom named Donnie (after her grandmother) and a Dad named Willie and grandparents, Mae and Ben.
I am from dinner at mid-day and supper in the evening, summer days in a big front yard and summer nights in the porch swing.
From don’t slam the screen door and it’s just the wind, go back to sleep.
I am from Baptist revivals on hot summer nights, Christmas pageants and Junior Choir practice.
I am from a small town in Virginia, rich in history, but forgotten by time; from fried chicken and creamed potatoes topped with a spoonful of garden peas.
From the nearby country store owned by my Grandma, where we ate ginger snaps and cheese, where customers bought bologna by the pound, and Grandma wrapped it in butcher paper and tied it with twine.
I am from a treasured old blue binder full of pages of our family history, traced back to Jamestown; the dates of more recent births, marriages and deaths penciled in the margins.
All this nostalgia was brought on by the split-second sighting of a little girl running through a yard. This was taking place at the house beside my childhood home. When I was that little girl’s age, her great-great grandparents lived there, and her granddad and I ran through that same yard on summer afternoons.
It’s amazing what can instantly trigger a memory, isn’t it?
~These Days Of Mine~
these days of mine 