Not Just Marking Time

There she was, in all her glory. She had on a big, red apron, channeling Rosie the Riveter. This gal wasn't working with metal or guns or planes. She was in the kitchen at Hardee's, of all places, covered with flour. Her work-wear face not flinching, writ with years of life experience. It threw me back in time, to all the many Southern kitchens I've been privileged to experience. Old women, full of wisdom and fire, working mysteries with white powder and butter. As a child, I would pass through those hallowed halls, awed by the power of food and sage women. I didn't stop on my way through, no, I was on my way to the outdoors, the woods and the ball fields. I got the lucky choice of playing in either place. 

Country rides were a favorite pastime of our family. Windows cranked down, dust roiling behind the car like tumbleweeds. We would make stops at various relatives' homes. Wooden, unsophisticated houses with no paint, pigs under the porch, dogs panting in the heat. The adults would sit inside while the kids poked around the creek or the barn. If we were really blessed, we'd get to ride somebody's pony and get bucked off in the process. My siblings and I might be some of the last generation to see these remnants of the Old South, the parts where the steam rose off the field, poor people worked hard for a living, fourty was old, and nobody seemed ashamed of what they didn't have. Maybe they were, it just didn't seem like it. I only saw bits and pieces of it, like dusky whispers on a hot June morning. Stopping by little creeks to fish. Trolling through miles of countryside without hurrying. Those things we know nothing about now. I remember the smells, the animals, the old people. I recall tiredness, but deep contentment. Houses baking in the sun, the big, sprawling brick ranches saved for the rich people. Cicadas buzzing, time standing still. It did stand still. Now it won't stop, but I'm thankful. I've seen the vestiges of the past and yet I'm standing in the future. The greatest generation, they're passing in front of me. The millenials, they're coming behind me. What a great time to be alive.