“Walking through the Park and Reminiscing”

  Christmas 2014 has
come and gone and if your family is like mine and millions of others, then you
celebrated with friends and family. This year the Matheny clan got together two
days after Christmas to celebrate, eat, and open gifts. They came in from Mississippi
and Georgia and converged into the Tennessee Valley. We were missing three due
to either sickness or other situations that did not allow them to attend. I am
a sentimentalist and love to reminisce on old times and share stories. Often I
am told I dwell too much on the past, but that is my life and memories area
huge part of that life.

 

  As a young boy
growing up in Macon, Georgia, I seldom got to visit my grandparents. They lived
in Florence, Alabama which was about an eight hour drive and believe me it was
a hard eight hour drive. We usually drove up on Christmas Eve and got there on Christmas
Day and the entire Matheny clan would make it to their house for the
celebration. My parents had a routine we followed each year to get to Alabama.
First my Mother, about two weeks before Christmas, would send a Western Union
telegram letting Santa know he needed to come to our house before 7 pm because
we were leaving to visit grandparents. On Christmas Eve, Mom would take us to
the movie and while we were being entertained she and Dad would do the Santa
thing. When the movie was over they picked us up and we ate dinner at LaVista,
a small seafood restaurant in town. We were told this gave Santa time to come
and deliver his goods. Upon returning home we celebrated Christmas before
packing the car and heading to Alabama. To a lot of people this may sound
hokey, unbelievable, or possibly just plain wrong, but to this young boy it was
a tradition and the way we celebrated the season.

 

  Both sets of
grandparents lived in Florence, so the treat was much better getting to see
them all. We usually got to my grandmother’s house around 4 or 5 o’clock in the
morning and like Motel 6 there was always a light on for us. Dad liked to drive
at night for a couple of reasons; first he said the car always ran better at
night. Remember this was the late 1950’ and early 60’s and that was probably
true. Second, we slept while he drove which meant no stopping every 50 miles to
go the bathroom or the four boys in the back seat fighting over whatever we
could come up with to fight over. When we got to Grandma’s you could bet that
when we got in the house the biscuits were cooking in the oven and the
chocolate gravy was in the pan on the stove. Chocolate gravy was a delicacy
that we truly loved and Grandma, as we affectionately called her, knew it and
made sure it was available. Chocolate syrup is now bought in the store and is
called Chocolate syrup, but back then she would take cocoa, sugar and milk to
make the prized liquid that we coated our biscuits with and savored. Later in
the day the rest of the family showed up and we visited with cousins, aunts,
and uncles we had not seen in a year or more. After lunch, we retreated to the
big family room where the guitars came out and the adults would sing the old
bluegrass songs that were popular in that era.

 

  The big room had an old pot belly cast iron stove in it and
was the only room that was heated. Granddaddy burned large chunks of coal to
heat the room and the highlight of the day was getting to open the door and
throw in a piece of coal. Being a young boy I was not accustom to opening the
door, so I would grab the beehive handle and burn my fingers every time. The
big house was cold in the winter and cool in the summer, at night Grandma would
take hot water bottles to warm the bed we all four slept in. Once in the bed we
found ourselves under a mountain of heavy quilts and you didn’t get out because
the floor was cold and the room was like a freezer. Granddaddy always ate bran
in the morning for breakfast before eating anything else; he was one of the
original health food junkies. He never ate anything hot; he would let it cool
before letting his food enter his mouth. Did I mention he had all of his teeth
when he died at sixty-eight. Grandma would cook breakfast then clean up and
start lunch. Once lunch was done she would start supper. We knew we were loved
but they didn’t have time to get on the floor and play or throw the ball to us,
they were busy doing what they did.  The
house was on a hill which the people in East Florence called Billy Goat Hill
and it over looked the train yard. My brother would sneak away and climb down
the hill to the yard and come back and tell me how he evaded the yard police
who was looking for Hobo’s and kids like him coming into the yard without
permission. In August I was in Florence for a family reunion, when I am there I
always try to ride by both sets of grandparents old homes just to see them and
reminisce. This time I saw something that hurt my heart, the old house on Billy
Goat Hill had been torn down. As I looked at the vacant lot, I saw my Grandma
coming out that old screen door watching us get out of the car and my Granddaddy
sitting on the big porch smiling as he dipped his snuff. It made me think that
dwelling on the past is good and being a sentimentalist is an art that should
be perfected. As we grow in maturity, I like that term better than age, it is
good to reflect and share your memories so your children and grandchildren can
know and pass along the things that are important. Can memories hurt? Yes they
can but they can bring little moments of joy too.

 

Old songs bring back memories as well and Pandora is playing
my songs. Gotta go.

 

“Life Happens”