By Jan Penton Miller

Columnist

 

A beautiful blue sky beckons me to the backyard to sit awhile. On this lovely summer’s day I am greeted by a breeze as soft as a whisper gently stirring the mass of black-eyed susans in their wild glory as the morning sun plants a kiss upon their cheeks. 

These hearty rudbeckias bloom profusely among all manner of other plants, which appear determined to choke out their very existence or at least leave them barren of color. But they bloom in spite of the seeming chaos surrounding them.

My coffee has grown cold as I sit and drink in the beauty of another day. Birds fly overhead off to who knows where, and I think about the way each creature is created so perfectly. The innate ability of a bird to navigate as they move south for the winter and make their return trip to a northern clime at precisely the right time is a wonder.

A little brown beauty lights on a chair nearby for a brief moment and chirps her good morning before soaring to the sky in search of her morning repast. Melinda’s puppy, Lillie, and my own dear Winnie scamper from place to place with noses to the ground, sniffing perhaps to decipher which unwanted intruder has dared to cross into their territory in the night.

A rooster crows from somewhere nearby, reminding me of mornings I awakened in that old green farmhouse in Neshoba County, Mississippi. Fond memories engulf me and draw me like ocean waves to another time and place, and I become the skinny little freckle-faced girl who loved waking up on my grandparents’ farm.

My nose wriggles and a little smile slips across my face as I breathe in the pleasant aroma of bacon frying. 

Quickly, I hop out of bed and scamper across the creaky wooden floors to my post in Mamaw’s kitchen. I watch and chat with my grandmother as she multitasks effortlessly making certain that the biscuits brown at just the moment the eggs and bacon are ready to plate. 

Her lips purse and produce her trademark airy sound that could only be called a whistle by someone listening with love. Mamaw exudes joy as she prepares a feast for her sleepy, hungry brood. She feeds the body and the spirit of whomever is fortunate enough to sleep under her roof, and many times the old farmhouse is fairly bursting with her grandchildren and their friends.

I never really thought about the fact that Mamaw had the gift of hospitality, but she surely did. She shone bright like a diamond in her plain dress and with her hair pulled back into a severe bun. No one would ever say that my grandmother was a great beauty, but I fondly remember her beautiful, loving soul. 

She was then and is now my inspiration.