Blackberry Hollow: A Taste of Yesterday

Memories of forgotten corn whispers, and prayers, as the tractor’s rippled through the field, like forgotten hymns I can still hear the hum when it is quiet. I still see the imprint of my grandpa and father upon the fields, though they have been gone for decades. I can hear the train as it sounds its whistle off in the distance. A gentle reminder that even this steel machine was once alive in these parts, has now become extinct. Yet, I remember the allure of the train, the steady beat as it seems to create its own music on its rails. These memories are etched into the horizon. The memories are etched into our hearts, every memory we recall even in tales, keeps the imprint alive. It keeps the echoes in the wind alive. It keeps the tree songs that the breeze sings, or the ripple and splash of the water that ignites a memory of the past. The tractor's tire tracks have faded, yet their echo lingers. The earth remembers the way it yielded to the plow and the way it cradled seeds like promises. Grandpa's hands were calloused and determined, he sowed dreams. The soil absorbed his labor and the wind cooled his sweat soaked brow. My grandfather was a forebear of knowledge, passing down the sacred art of sustenance. This land is personal to the children of the elders, it is the legacy in which we remember the life and times before us. The wind whispers its secrets daily, the grand oak and walnut conversing amongst the tree line as the sun settles in for the night. But, before we dive right in, we have biscuits to make. Grandma and mom were adamant that you start off every day with a good breakfast. You cannot work all day in the fields if your tank is empty. Grandma had no worry when it came to making biscuits and gravy. She was proud to admit that a pan of biscuits never went to waste.