Old Times

I was thinking about some of the events of my childhood. I remember going to my Grandparents home in Bowman, Ga.. The house was a weathered old building, immaculate in form but in need of paint. Paint must have seemed a luxury to people who had just lived through a depression and a World War. Nails and TLC had to do instead. There was no indoor plumbing, an outdoor privy and a hand drawn well serving the purpose. There were chickens running in the yard and a cotton field surrounding the house and barn. The barn was a favorite of hide and go seekers, the loft being the best hiding spot. Never mind that the seeker always came directly there to look for you. Grandpa would butcher a chicken while we watched. When he chopped off the head we would always scream and then beg him to "Let it run, Grandpa, Let it run!". Sometimes he would release the headless chicken to scamper aimlessly while we screamed and ran from it. Usually he would take it into the barn and hang it by its' feet for the blood to drain. I can still picture the wires hanging from the ceiling where the chickens were hung. Today chickens are a multi billion dollar business in that area. The smell of chicken houses is carried on the wind for miles. One thing I hold in my memory closely is the well. I remember that the bucket was raised and lowered by a rope wound around a large wooden axle. This axle had at its' end a crank used to lift the full buckets of cold, sweet water. When Grandpa lowered the bucket he would let his hand lay against the wood to control its' descent. The wood was worn smooth where his hand would lay. Sometimes he would lift us children up and let us lay our hands there and "help" him. I can still remember vividly over 40 years later how that felt as the bucket descended into the well and my Grandpa held me with my hand against the wood. He would lean close and say "Be careful, honey, and don't let it burn your hand.". He called all the children "honey", boys and girls. It's funny what you remember. These trips were always made on Sunday after church. The Interstates were under construction ( some things never change) and it took a couple of hours to get there on two lane roads through numerous small towns. Today the trip can be made in a couple of hours on the Interstate if the traffic isn't too bad. We travelled in style in a 1959 Nash Rambler station wagon. A vehicle that, thankfully, Dad traded in for a 1960 Falcon. The Falcon served us well and was retired to O'Shields auto graveyard. There were alway Petunias growing at Grandpas'. It is a sweet smell I will forever associate with a happy childhood. I drove through that area recently and had a hard time spotting the old house, it having been renovated several times over the years. The cotton fields are gone and development has taken thier place. The privy and the well are gone and the barn. The house seems to have shrunk over the years but it still is large in my memory. Thanks for reading.