Hanging from the trees were wild grapevines; rabbits ran the warrens thru the briar patch; wild blackberries grew down by the creek… and we once called it home. Home was a magical place, love was there. You would always find a dog, and maybe a cat or two; and the smells of momma’s cooking would make any child drool.
Dad and Mom would listen to the old radio with us kids, and any stick made a riding horse. We sometimes slept three to a bed; or even on pallets on the floor. And momma’s hand-sewn quilts kept us warm as toast. More than once the air was filled with feathers when the pillow fights began, more than once I took a spanking just like a little man.
No one in my family knew what poverty was, because we always had a garden and chickens in the yard. How can there be poverty when kids were stung out like a string which meant there were always hand-me-downs. World War 2, and the tail end of the Depression, didn’t mean a thing because we were safe in a place once called home.
I remember the day in 5th grade when we came home to find that 50 ft. antenna standing beside the house… it was a nine inch Philco® and played only fuzzy black & white. But television came into that place on that day and the rest is history. Now violence, sex and drugs all come in with the twist of a dial… and this new generation has no idea what I am talking about when I dream of a place once called home.