Short Stories

Memories from Another Time

    Daddy cut a place out in the woods and built a little house the best he could. But Mommy made that little house a home. Her love made us feel so safe and warm. It just had four rooms, no closet or bathroom, a wood stove in the front room and a tin roof. Where the rain tapped out a soothing melody and the raindrops on the roof at night would play us to sleep. Daddy dug a hole out back of the house. And over that hole he built us an outhouse. Inside was a seat to sit down, with a hole in it that went to the hole in the ground. When nature called we walked the well worn path to rest a while in the old out-house out back. Daddy dug a basement under the house. It had a floor and walls of clay that he dug out. It’s ceiling was the floor under our feet; a cool place to store the food that we would eat. The wood stove kept the front room warm as toast. But the bedroom where we slept was always cold. We were warm and snug under the covers that were so heavy it was hard for us to turn over. Come morning we ran barefoot to the stove across the icy floor to put on our clothes. After winter played with spring its tug of war, and flowers stuck their heads up through the snow, came the season for renewal of all life; and a holiday to celebrate new life through Jesus Christ. So we would walk to church in our Sunday clothes to celebrate the fact that he arose. Then with great anticipation we would wait, while in our yard Mom and Dad hid colored Easter eggs, to find among the yellow daffodils, in the grass and on the window sills; as on our skin we felt the warm sunshine and the breeze that blew fluffy clouds across the deep blue sky. In the springtime Daddy plowed and disked the earth. Then they planted plants and seeds in the dirt. They hoed and watered them the summer long, then when harvest came they brought their harvest home. Then they put up the food for us to eat, cooked and sealed in mason jars so it would keep. I recall the stove where Mom would cook our food. The cast Iron eyes lifted out to put in the wood. Our house got hot when Mom was cooking her cat head biscuits, chicken and gravy and banana pudding. I can still taste the food that she would cook. I just can’t cook the way my mommy could. Mom washed our clothes in her wringer washer. Then she ran them through the wringers to get out all the water. The wringer’s rollers turned round and round while pressing hard together to wring the water out. After rinsing them in her washing tub, she wrung them out again and hung them up on the clothesline under the trees outside in the summer sun and breeze to dry. We bathed in mommy’s old washing tub in water pumped from the cistern that she heated up. Then she walked us to the church up on the hill and taught us about Jesus and the love he has to give. We prayed to Jesus at an early age and accepted his amazing grace. This was a gentle, much more innocent time, a time of unlocked doors and nursery rhymes. When Mommy’s didn’t work and with no TV, we would play outside under the trees. Little girls love to play house. So we used and old broom to sweep it out. The walls of our playhouse were the trees. Our roof was made of rustling leaves. An old mossy log became our couch. And with our baby dolls, we played house. Little girls have such imagination. So to us, our playhouse was a mansion. And the chipped plates and cups we used when we played house were brand new. We would walk a faded path to its end or find a flower filled shady glen. Then pick wildflowers and put some in our hair, or open lacy flowers to find the June bugs hidden there. Sometimes at the end of the day, we would pick our mommy a bouquet. And carry it home so delighted because she was always so delighted. Then she would put them in a jar, there on the kitchen table to admire. Once my brothers built a tree house from old boards and nails they had found. Then sat high up on their lofty perch, and looked down from there upon the earth. It wasn’t much to look at in that tree. But they had built it themselves and they were as proud as they could be. They roamed in the woods all around and carried home wild creatures they had found. We had a squirrel named Shorty and a crow named Joe. If my brothers could catch it they would bring it home. Then in the cool darkness of the night, as we played under a star filled sky, it looked like the stars were floating down and landing on the ground all around. So we would pick up those twinkling stars and put them in a mason jar. Then open it up and they would fly back up into the starry night sky. Today Mom and Dad are both gone. But their memory often brings me home. Then I walk those lonely wooded hills once more. The way I did so many years before. There are no little children playing there. No children’s laughter echoes in the air. Then coming back brings back old memories and we play once again under the trees. (Phyllis Stout Grindstaff) (This was written in memory of our precious Mom & Dad who we miss so very much.)

Click any painting below to see examples of my work:

"Winter Home" - oils 18"X24"

"Yellow Iris" - watercolors 11"X14"

"Bald Eagle"  - watercolors 8"X10"

"Old Homeplace" - oils 14"X18"

"Pink Roses" - watercolors 8"X10"

"Best Friend" colored pencils 8"X10"