At Mamaw's House

At Mamaw's house, we don't wear shoes, indoors or out.
Our feet, caked in dirt, feel every blade of grass and we become superhuman in our ability to walk on the rocks in the driveway.

At Mamaw's house, the days are long and we make the most of every last bit of sunshine.
We climb trees, we make cakes out of dirt, and we roll down the big ditch.

At Mamaw's house, we dream. I swing, and swing, and swing and watch the cars go by. We  lay on the ground and look at clouds shaped liked elephants and cars and angels.

At Mamaw's house, we eat. A lot. Potato salad, orange fluff, chicken n' dumplings, and banana pudding. Other people eat, too. A revolving door of non-stop visitors fills every inch of her house holding a styrofoam plate and a glass of the sweetest sweet tea you ever drank.

At Mamaw's house, we visit. Sometimes with people we love and look forward to seeing, sometimes with people we spend the rest of the night trying to figure out how we're related.

At Mamaw's house, we cut paper dolls out of the Sears Christmas catalog and play with baby dolls our Mama played with.

At Mamaw's house, we learn that we can get glad in the same pants we got mad.

At Mamaw's house, sometimes we're sneaky. I sneak into her bathroom to play in her make-up. We sneak in to try on Aunt Annabelle's wig while she sleeps.

At Mamaw's house, there is only one TV channel. Unless Papaw goes outside to move the antenna. We get up early on Saturday to watch cartoons.

At Mamaw's house, we walk miles to the candy store to get candy and a coke. Sometimes, if Mamaw is gone shopping, Papaw will take us there to get a hamburger for lunch.

At Mamaw's house, we sing "She's in Love With The Boy" to the cows in the pasture and we think they enjoy it.

At Mamaw's house, we go fishing at the pond and learn that sometimes you have to wait more than 3.5 seconds to get a bite. I try to like catfish for Papaw, but mostly I just like hushpuppies.

At Mamaw's house, we ride on the lawn mower until we run out of gas.

At Mamaw's house, I said my first cuss word. I was four. She never let me forget it. :)

At Mamaw's house, we hunt for Easter eggs, even if it's not Easter. And we sing, "Here Comes Peter Cotton Tail, hoppin' down the bunny trail...."

At Mamaw's house, we are kids. And we are loved.

In Loving Memory