I grab my bag and a hair-tie from the vanity on my way Out the door, tying my waist-length brown hair in a knot as I hurry down the stairs. My nana stands at the stove, stirring the pot of gravy she is making for breakfast. Behind her stands my papaw, playfully yanking her ponytail every time she turns around. At first glance one would think that they make an odd couple, with my nana being only five feet tall, with fox-red hair and hazel green eyes, in near perfect contrast to my papaw who is a large man, standing nearly six foot four, with eyes the color of the sky and white air that was once jet black.
But as they laugh and play standing there in the kitchen, I know this place would mean nothing if they were any different. I slip on my boots at the door, and run across the field to the old wooden barn, its red has long faded, and the metal door handles are covered with rust. Reach out and grab the rusty handle and pull, hearing the ancient hinges creak and groan as the door opens. Walking into the barn can smell the fresh hay, and the lingering smell of the old moonshine still that sits in the corner, unattended for years, but left for the antique look.
I climb the ladder to the loft, and wade through the piles of hay until reach the little door that opens onto the roof. Climb out onto the roof and walk to the end of the barn. There sit down, my leg hanging over the edge of the black shingled roof. I sit and watch as the deer run across the field, and as the train go by down next to the river. Reach in my bag and pull out my sketch pad and charcoals. I draw everything I see, the river, the birds, and the mountains. After I finish, climb down and run to the house; pause at the door, leaning own to pull off my boots.
I open the door, and step into the kitchen, the floor is warm from the heat of the old white stove, causing tiny droplets of condensation to form on the speckled blue wallpaper. Nana has already set the table, her faded blue and white china resting in front of three chairs on the blue table cloth that covers the deep brown oak table. On each plate sit two biscuits, golden and gleaming with butter, accompanied by sausage and fried eggs. Grab the pot from the Stove and ladle the thick, creamy gravy onto everyone’s plates.
The steam rises from each plate like a plume of smoke from a tiny fire, taking with it the wonderful smell of my nana’s cooking. As we sit down to eat, we join hands and my papaw gives the blessing; thanking God for the food he has provided on this day, and for forty years h?s had with the wonderful woman who cooked it. See my nana smile with love for my papaw, her head still bowed in prayer as we say ‘amen. ‘ As we raise our heads, I smile too, knowing that this place is filled with love and laughter and always will be.
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