I can see the house still, the way it appeared to the child I was. The wide shadowy porch, screened at one end and with a long, heavy white wooden swing at the other, held promises. Promises of rainy days spent watching rain water cascade from the gutters after thundering a rhythm on the tin roof. Promises of huddled conferences between the cousins over whether Dr. Crawford's son was really cute or just seemed that way because of his dancing blue eyes. Promises of swinging breathtakingly high with barefoot toes wiggling and squeals of excitement caught in our throats. Promises of daydreams waiting to be caught. All this on one wide, dusty, grey porch in a small hot Georgia town.
I sat and drank in the details of that big frame house on the corner. Thirty years of tenants moving in and out had wrought changes. It was inevitable. And yet...it was in that frame house on the corner my memories began. I began to appreciate life there. Some of my first recollections are of Christmases celebrated there.
When I got out of the car, the air felt heavy with a summer heat one can only find in the South. I heard laughter and saw the ghosts of my childhood dancing past as I stood on the cracked and buckled sidewalk directly in front of the house. It was hard not to laugh as I remembered learning how to roller skate on that same crumpled sidewalk before time and tree roots had creased its smoothness.