Protruding nailheads and quarter inch cracks in the 1940 something wooden porch floor were not inviting. I sat down with care near a large, dangerous looking splinter and took off my shoes. My feet ached, protesting their long walk through acres of our tall majestic pines. A thorough sock inventory gave up a couple of small hitchhiking ticks. Tugging my new Hawaiian cap down over my eyes I prepared to do battle with a day-long headache.
Singing along with Norah Jones and Ray Charles' "Here He Comes Again" I eased my IRiver sound up a tad, adjusted my earphones and leaned back against a post. Caressed by a warm Southern breeze I watched sunset rays filter through the century-old oak tree limbs in the front yard. In my direct line of vision just beyond the oak tree a sturdy red Snapper lawnmower hummed in perfect unison with its operator.
So, that's how it was yesterday afternoon when my husband, driving his prestigious lawnmower instead of the company-owned Chevrolet of long ago and I, sitting on the porch of our old farmhouse retreat instead of spinning on a college dance floor, were given back a little bit of our past. Wish I'd had a yellow ribbon.
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