A Childhood Recall

       This is one of the stories I wrote in 1986 when I was enrolled in an English Composition Class. I found this when I was looking for some other things. This was the rough draft. I don't know what happened to the finished product. I'm sure it was revised because there was a note attached from  the instructor. He wanted to know why I didn't mention coffee in the story as well as offering several other words of advise.   
       I thought it might be worth reading.


     I rested my chin on the red and white gingham checked tablecloth and watched the steam slowly rise from the pan of hot oatmeal. The distinct smell of smoked bacon frying in a huge cast iron skillet drifted in the air. In the center of the table was a plate of toast piled high and accompanied by the pitcher of cream and the sugar bowl. I listened to the spoon clang against the glass pitcher as Grandmother vigorously stirred the orange juice.

     Mother had already left for work. It was dark when she left and it would be dark when she returned. The predawn hours made the farm house feel empty and the mornings long. The rest of the family would be going off to work or to school soon and we would be alone, my Grandmother and I.

     I remember tagging along behind her as she set out to do the chores. She always wore a homemade bib apron of gingham or flower print with giant pockets sewn on the front. She made aprons from the very feed sacks from which she scooped the grain to feed the stock. I wore faded blue jeans and worn tennis shoes. My hair was braided tight against my head, usually with bright red, blue, or green ribbons wrapped around each tail.

     First we went to the hen house and then to the hog lot. My legs grew tired trying to keep up with her. I stayed near her, fearful of the squealing hogs.

     When the chores were finished we walked together, my Grandmother and I, down the dusty lane to the mailboxes. The row of dirt covered boxes leaning backwards on their post.

     We walked slowly now, stopping to acknowledge the wild flowers that grew along the roadside. I picked an assortment of the weeds, thinking it would be appreciated when Mother returned.

     The day was filled with work to do. Washing clothes in the wringer washer and hanging clothes on the line. 

     Later in the day Grandmother beat the egg whites into fluffy white meringue. She piled it high on top of the lemon pie. The miniature pie tin was filled just for me.