Home sings me a sweet song

Some folks are lucky enough to spend a few days or weeks on Dutton Hill, some of us luckier still, to call to it home. Our life..
We are indeed, lucky. The number of folks falling into the category of family know who they are---- our real family, the ones that fall in love the minute they climb the hill and see our mother setting the table, picking the vegetables, telling a tale, singing an old folk song or showing off her varied collections. Generally making each moment, well.... momentous. You just know, this is it and IT doesn't have to be defined. And the food. If food is love, if food is life, if food is joy...food from Cebah's kitchen is the nearest thing to heaven that I know. Because, one smell, one bite, one piece of fried chicken and it is all encompassing. I have been home for the past two days. Gone are the days of Mom gathering everything from scratch and having a meal ready in an hour, but the memories, oh, the memories. You couldn't pry them from me with a crowbar.
Last night I crawled into bed, the window open. The bugs sawing away outside, a little breeze kicking..... instant sleep. As the first birds started chirping this morning, I could smell the double strong coffee coming from the kitchen. The day began. And what a day it was. We decided to go on a little road trip over to the Amish Village. This is about a twenty-five minute drive through country that is stunningly beautiful. We drove slowly over Fishing Creek, following its snake path through the rolling verdant hills. Long fields of corn flanked each side of the road. As we turned from the blacktop road to the dusty, narrow dirt road, we passed by the persimmon tree. On a previous trip, a year or so ago, my mother had me climb on top of my car to shake the persimmons from the tree. She stood on the ground whooping with delight each time another orange cascade fell from the sky. We gathered enough for her persimmon pudding.

We drove past fences holding chickens, goats,cows and horses. We drove through low bottom ground brimming with ripe watermelons. Horse drawn rakes were fluffing the hay into rows. Shy children were playing under shade trees near the back porch. Sheets and overalls were drying on clotheslines, propped up with slender sapling poles. We stopped often by the creek bed and fields to just soak up the quiet contentment of the day. Without a word we both knew this was a hard life but a good life. A way of life we both knew well.

We stopped in the Amish store, stocking up on 'bulk items'...The Amish women do not speak much and help only if you ask. Otherwise, gather your goods, pay in cash and leave quietly. I always get: strike anywhere matches, poison ivy soap, homemade butter and assorted dried fruits. Somehow we always manage to get lots of items but the staples are always the same for me.
My mom is getting older and her days are not as active...she can still tell a story that will amaze and amuse...she still bosses her kids around and she adores her new little boy, Alf, the pup. I dream of Paris, I dream of New York, I dream of Spain.....I dream and dream but I live a charmed life. I am Cebah's daughter.