More than a decade ago I visited one of the homes of my youth. My bedroom occupied the northwest corner of the house. With two closed doors between me and the fireplace, the place where I slept became a deep freeze by Christmas. That was when I grabbed my bedding and moved to an army cot into the storm cellar to await the arrival of spring.
Sleeping beneath the fireplace hearth made for a tolerable winter. That was when I tuned my Arvin five-tube radio so I could hear the Grand Ole Opry and the Louisiana Hay Ride.
Eventually, I grew into an adult and busied myself with life, married a girl from an Oregon fishing village, raised a family, and tended to the many responsibilities that go with such things.
Forty years slipped by before I returned this place of my youth. The house had burned and the barn had collapsed upon itself. Very few things were as I remembered. Before leaving, I stepped upon the foundation wall overlooking the place where I’d spent my winters and closed my eyes.
For a moment I thought I heard the singing voice of Ernest Tubb. Maybe it was Web Pierce. I’m not sure because the sound lasted only a moment. Logic tells me I heard a breeze moving through a large elm.
Perhaps, but I still wonder.