Memories of Old

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.

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