The Big House

The Big House. That is what we always called my grandparent's house. It's long gone now. But in my mind, it still stands.

I can still feel the cool concrete of the front porch under my feet on a hot summer's day.

I can see the delicate red blossoms on the cypress vine that draped from column to column.

I can hear the hum of an oscillating fan while trying to take an afternoon nap, the laughter of a dozen cousins carried on the breeze.

I can see my grandfather, sitting in his chair under the mimosa tree in the front yard.

I can feel the fear of the bull when my uncle placed me over the fence and told me to be careful because I was wearing red.

I can hear the good-natured ribbing as we jostle for position in line for dinner, the bowls in all shapes and sizes lining the deep freeze.

I can feel the excitement as we fight for our turn at the crank on the ice cream freezer, letting the uncles take over when it got too hard.

I can feel the excitement of being sent by Uncle Ginny to catch frogs so he could scare my aunts.

I can hear the clanging of cast iron pans as my grandmother rose before dawn to begin preparing breakfast for us.

I can taste the milk, still warm from the cow.

I can hear the jumble of a dozen conversations being carried on simultaneously.

I can hear the crickets as we walk to the spring to retrieve a cooling watermelon.

I can feel the excitement as we dare each other to ring the bell in the front yard, the one we were never supposed to ring but always did.

I can feel the grit in my shoes from the afternoon visit to the sand pit at the back of the property.

I feel the weight of handmade quilts on my legs as I snuggle deeper into the feather mattress, the softness of the cotton sheets that have been washed untold times.

I can still feel the love. I carry it with me every day.

Yes, the big house still stands.