At Home In The Corn Crib


At Home In The Corn Crib

There were cracks in the floor.

I could see the hen and her chicks scratching in the dirt.

No rugs, no pretty painted walls...

Just splintery boards haloed by the sunshine pouring through more cracks.

There were sounds in the dark, unfamiliar yet easy to learn.

The Bob White quail, the mockingbird,

The rooster's crow at dawn,

The jingle of harness as Daddy finished plowing the field.

No ice cream wagon's bell, no friendly neighbor's call...

Just whispering wind in the thick Georgia pines.

There were strange sights in all directions...

Road scrape machines occasionally flattening the rutted dirt trail,

Scurrying wild things invading the house and yard,

Chattering as they scrambled on tiny feet.

No paved street, no houses all in rows with children playing Red Rover...

Just rural landscape in a vast wood filled with untamed creatures.

There were unfamiliar smells, but I grew to love them...

Pine tar's pungent sting, sweet honesuckle, jasmine on the wind,

And the dank thick odor of fermenting leaves my feet churned through the woods.

No automobile exhaust, no factory smoke,

No stink of burned food as Mrs. King prepared supper...

Just clean, natural fragrances that took root in my soul.

I felt abandoned in the rustic country vista...

No children my age, no doting relatives giving needed warmth and attention,

No recreation for a five-year-old...

Just pristine wilderness, unspoiled beauty, peaceful isolation,

And a rendevous with God.

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