GRANDDAD’S
TENT
We did lots of camping when I was a kid. We camped in an old canvas tent. I remember the sound as it flapped in the wind. I remember its feel and its scent. I remember the sound of warm rain on its roof and the comfort it offered each night. I recall how I felt looking out at the stars by the campfire’s flickering light, the feel of my pillow at the end of the day when my shoulders were pink from the sun, my grandmother’s kiss as she tucked us in bed after our prayers were done. First thing in the morning the fire was lit. Great Grandma brought graniteware dishes. There were golden brown hotcakes for breakfast of course, and for supper fried tatters and fishes. Each day we’d go swimming and play in the sand. My granddad would take us all hiking. Sis and I watched as he whittled a cane, and the stick horses more to our liking. We’d sit by the fire in the late afternoon. I’d sit in my grandmothers’ lap. Dad would go fishing. My momma would read, and Granddad enjoyed a good nap. Later on in the evening, when supper was done, there was coffee from a graniteware pot, delicious marshmallows we roasted on sticks, and dried figs that my great grandma brought. I remember the feel of hot sand on bare feet, and melon seeds stuck to my chin, the stories of camping trips long, long ago, and the way that my granddad would grin. How the decades fast have flown; how quickly reached, September. How bitter sweet the joys we’ve known. How precious to remember. How bright the wide and starry skies. How fleeting, lives long spent. How like the stars, my granddad’s eyes, and life ephemeral, much like Granddads’ tent.
“Glad Days Long Ago”
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