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Memories Come Flooding Back to Me

By Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)


If you're like me, you have many memories. One memory I have is an activity my brother and I enjoyed this time of year. It was too early for the leaves to turn, and the walnut trees were still hanging on to their nuts. The corn hadn't been cut so there weren't any fodder shocks to play in, but the grape arbor was full of grapes and the grapes were ripe! The plums were ripe, too, and the apples were almost ready for picking. But it's the grape harbor I'm remembering.

Imagine a grape arbor covered with thick twisted vines, and imagine those vines sagging under with the weight of dark purple grapes. My mother would make jelly from the grapes and after the jelly cooled, she would cover the jars with a layer of parafin. My brother and I would help pick the grapes and after the jelly was made, we were allowed to eat or do whatever with the rest of the grapes. Yellow Jackets and Honeybees were a problem, but we fought them off. We would eat grapes until we nearly popped and then we would gather up our friends so we could have grape fights. We would put on old clothes and form teams, and then we would hunt and chase. It was a fun activity for children in a rural area where there weren't any sidewalks to play on.

What would you like to share from the memories you have? It need not be about the seasons. We'll enjoy whatever you would like to share with us. Submit to
LaraOct7 (LaraOct7@aol.com)











 


My Oldies But Goodies

By Amy (Fabulousfilly@aol.com)




about a half a century ago
it was safe to walk the streets you know
no locked doors
no guns galore


we danced every saturday night
down at the ymca
sometimes the boys would get into a fight
but not the way they do today


we had clean fun
we used to run
we used to dance
and on some cozy nights make romance


we played something called records
some folks in school were called nerds
some were called einsteins
and some were so fine


record hops
flip flops
hoola hoops
and camera bloops


four on the floor
guys wanted nothin more
cashemere sweaters
were so much better


furry collars
mom would holler
wow they cost so much dear
crinnolins were full and clear


panty hose no no no
we had those garter belts,
as for then no afros
we had little hats made of felt


holidays were family
sunday blue laws were the pitts
gifts were homemade freely
and girls were worried about a thing called zits


boys were shy
my oh my
girls were nice
like sugar and spice


fun times were had like skating and games
no one ever heard of a gang
times have changed i'm so sad to say
i wish it was still like the good ole days









 


Memories Come Flooding Back to Me

By Tom (tomWYO@aol.com)




It had been many a year as I walked into the old school house, Montvale High School. Eleven years it had been my home, my school. First and second grades in the old wooden building that had been the original school around the turn of the century, then over to the addition which housed the Home Ec and four class rooms. But the big brick building was my class room home, half of the fourth grade and then six through graduation.

It was dark as I walked into the door, into the small foyer and looked at the auditorium, lunch room, gym, study hall and other uses. I looked at the now long gone backboard and basket just inside the door. I got an eerie feeling as I looked to the left where the library had been. The librarian once told a group of students that I had read most every book in there. I wonder how many I did read?

Then to the right was Mr. McKee’s Office. The wooden mail box for teachers beside the door. I walked over and looked in. It is now a substation for the county Sheriff’s department. I spoke to the deputy on duty and told him who I was and I just had to look in. “They consolidated the high school back in the late 50’s and then built a new school,” he replied. “Look around and see if you see Mr. McKee or Miss Rayburn’s ghosts patrolling the halls.”

The first room on the right as I left the office was our Sophomore home room. Miss Walker and Mrs. Gordon taught English here. Of course the desks were gone and the wall to wall blackboards were gone. I looked at where the back row was over next to the window. How many classes did I sit there. “Friends, Roman, Countrymen, lend me your ears. . . I come to buy Caesar, not praise him . . .” I said as I remembered reading Julius Caesar in class and I read Mark Anthony’s part. I started placing class mates and then I swear I could see Mrs. Gordon walking back and chiding me for something. I smiled and moved to the next room. It was the math room and our Eighth grade and Freshman year home room. Algebra, Trig, Plane Geometry and second Algebra. I was taught in that room. As I looked where the teacher’s desk sat, I remember that problem in trig, “water is flowing in at so many gallons per minute and there are two drains that run so many gallons per minute, how long will it take to fill the tank?”

I looked at where Red sat and where I sat and grinned as I remembered the arguments we had in most every class. Whatever he said, I argued the other way or whatever I said he argued the other way and just by happenstance just before the bell rang we would agree that we were talking about the same thing, only stating it differently. Poor Mrs. Nance, she never caught on.

And then down to the next room, our Junior and Senior homeroom. Well after a week or so at the start of my Junior year, I left the room and had my homeroom in the library. The teacher and the principal let me. But in this room, I learned more than any other room, I had a teacher who had more affect on my life than anyone, Miss Wilma Rayburn. I walked back to the built in book case and all of those old National Geographic were gone. Oh the hours I spent reading those. It was the first time I had seen them and she had every issue. I learned Abou Ben Adham, All Men are Four and we discussed communism and the world situation.

And oh the little record player where those marvelous Johnny Ray records we played before and after class and at lunch time. Miss Wilma Rayburn ruled with an iron hand and shrieked at us, admonishing us for all of our old country ways. As I looked where her desk was, I let out a big laugh as I remembered once one of her friends visited her and we were discussing something and I raised my hand, she recognized me and then I asked, “Miss Rayburn, what did President Truman do that was illegal by the United States Constitution?” She looked bumfuzzled and said nothing that she knew of and then she said, “Well tell us?”

With a real big smile I looked at her and her friend and replied, “He sent US troops to Korea without a declaration of war and without Congress approving it. . . . .” Of course I quoted the correct passages from our Constitution. That old woman was miffed and I knew I was in deep doo doo because she did not like to be shown up by some kid. I learned later she reveled in the event because she said she had at least one student who thought for themselves.

I walked by to the Chemistry lab and oh lord, I took Biology, Chemistry and Physics in that room and even made whoopee in there a couple times. I remembered all sort of things that transpired in that room.

Slowly I walked up on stage and the old scenery and the curtains were gone. I found the corner where I had made whoopee a couple times with different girls then I walked back to the office. “You know I saw an awful lot of ghosts and had a lot of old memories come flying out at me,” I told the Deputy as I thanked him and went about my business. Old memories do flow when one goes back and just looks around.








 


Memories Come Flooding Back to Me

By Bob (C1ydeBunky@aol.com)




I may be particularly blessed, because my memories actually do not come flooding back to me. Somehow if I need a memory, I go get it and check it out when the inspiration comes to me. I do recall things on occasion that seem to enter my consciousness without my deliberate recalling them, but they are few and far between.

Memories, to me, are generally pleasant - the advantages to selective memory are obvious to all, I imagine - if a particular memory that is dredged up is not especially pleasing, I just drop it and go on to some other memory (or back to one of my puzzles). It isn't that I am taken down by some sad or unpleasant memory - it's more like I don't need those in my life anymore (except for lessons that were learned it those particular times), so why bother to dwell on them?

There are times that my memory-chasing is not as effective as I would like it to be, and some details elude me. Most things that happened are no longer as alive in my memory as they once were, so I have to resort to a sort of logical re-building of memory, if you will, to complete (or nearly complete) the memory.

I enjoy trivia, and if ever a memory were to flood back to me, I think it would be in playing that game. Almost every stimulus seems seems to offer a response (right or wrong!), and an answer (sometimes ANY answer) pops into my head. A small flood, perhaps, but a "flood", one item at a time rapidly.

One other thing I have noticed over the years - my memory of things I heard seems to be as strong as, or perhaps stronger even than, many other things that were part of previous activities in my memory. I recall that not taking notes in college was preferable to me to taking notes, because when I took notes, I could sometimes not remember what was said as well as I would if I just listened and "remembered". Once in a great while a specific item was mentioned (e.g., Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 14 hundred and 92) and I would write it down, but that happened only a few times during a particular class.

I think my memories are there, and I may just be practicing flood control. I don't remember it any other way!

Clyde Bunky








 


Memories Come Flooding Back to Me

By Sharon (Sunyskys1943@aol.com)




I sit at the dining room table
Memories come flooding back to me
There sit all of my cousins oh yes
And each of Uncles and each Auntie


Mom and Pop and my siblings there too
For the holiday pot luck good meal
This antique round wooden oak table
Has wonderful memory appeal


It shows the scars of years of usage
Many of those people passed away
I remember the board games and cards
The pleasure we got from the play


Each of the women brought a good dish
Remembering each and every taste
What we didn't eat as we gathered
Taken home for later not to waste


One aunt brought scalloped corn for to share
Uncle cranked out good homemade ice cream
After the meal one would take a nap
A smile on his face from some fun dream


This wooden round antique oak table
Was a place for family to meet
Everyone brought cheerful chattering
And many flavorful things to eat









 


Memories

By Joy (JOY3032@aol.com)




A lone earring on the closet floor
A birthday card from mom and dad
The mention of how much we loved
And took for granted what we had


Wedding veil in a box on the shelf
Pictures of high school friends of long ago
I feel the pain of remembrance
Of days that seemed to ebb and flow


Dried flowers that adorned those lovely gowns
Letters tied with ribbons from forgotten loves
Like an automaton I continue the chore
And pray for strength from up above


I'm poised to flee the memories assault
Feverishly working to finish the task
I check the tears that try to come
My expression strained, stretched like a mask


My soul lets out a murmured sigh
It is the darkest exclamation
A tape of laughing voices paints a picture
Of a spirited and joyful celebration


My job seems it will never end
Cutting through the mind-set locks
That lovely laugh cuts me like a knife
While storing bittersweet memories in a box



This was written while sorting my daughter's things after she died at age 30. Poetry helps to heal the soul.








 


Haiku

By Emiliano (Poeta48@aol.com)




The flooding of thougts
can arrive at any time
and evaporate.









 


One Sailor's Girl

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)




I held your bracelet in my hand,
The one with the mother of pearl,
And sailor’s wings of gold on top,
A locket for your girl.


Oh, how I wish I loved you more,
You love me though far away,
The aircraft carrier that you rode then,
Instilled pride in you, but not “that” way.


Love or guilt I knew not which
Would urge me to give you my hand,
I’d meet you on your homecoming dock
Though my dream be on other lands.


I held your sweet bracelet in my hand,
Oh, help me, my heart to decide,
Should I return it and hurt you,
Or my feelings forever hide.









 


A Stitch in Time, Memories of Summer in the Country

By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@comcast.net)




As a child growing up, I usually spent one week in the summer with my grandparents in a very small and even more rural town. It was one of the things I enjoyed most about summer. My grandparents lived a simple life in a little country town where most of the back yards contained large gardens. My grandparents not only had a garden but a pump. All the children loved that pump, and getting to pump water to carry out to the garden when the weather was dry was a treat. The well was not used for drinking water, only outside chores. The days were long as we were outside from dawn until dusk and sometimes even later, if the mosquitoes weren't biting. My uncle owned a country store just down the road and the day usually held at least one trip to talk, get a bottle of orange or grape soda and just watch the customers come in and out. Sometimes he would let me do little chores.

I loved my Grandma's bedroom. She had a high four poster bed, a little dresser with a round mirror and a big picture of her parents that stared down at me from above her chest of drawers. Their faces were stern, but they didn't scare me. I knew it was just because the picture was very old. One summer I knocked over one of my Grandma's dresser lamps, and it broke. I felt really bad about it, but Grandma just laughed and said it didn't matter, glued it together and forgot about it. She never replaced that broken lamp because my Grandma never placed much value on material possessions. My feelings were much more important to her than a lamp.

My Grandma had a wash house out by the garden. In that little shed there was a coal oil stove, her Maytag wringer washer, some rinse tubs, and a few garden implements. On hot summer days, Grandma would cook green beans on that coal oil stove in the little wash house. I loved to smell the beans cooking. They were special because my Grandma canned them from her garden. I can still smell them and remember the scent of that little shed if I try real hard.

At night I got to wash up in the little porcelain wash pan that Grandma had. There wasn't any air conditioning and the cool water felt good on my dusty feet. Sometimes Grandma would cut quilt blocks or sew them together for a quilt she was working on, and the three of us would listen to the radio. There was no TV. Grandma would undo her long hair that she wore in a braided bun during the day, and I would beg to brush it. Then she would braid it in a long pigtail down her back, and we would go to bed. I always got to sleep in Grandma's big four poster bed with her. Grandpa slept out in the room that had once been a porch. There was a window fan and a cool summer breeze from outside. What a wonderful, peaceful way to end a summer day.

I remember a summer day when Grandpa and I walked into the little country town's shopping area. We went into a little junk shop. On the floor stood a white Plaster of Paris duck. I immediately found a liking and need for that duck. Grandpa bought it for me. Now I'm sure Grandpa could have found a better use for whatever it cost, but he bought me that silly duck, and I never forgot that day until this. So you see, it was a memory that my Grandpa probably didn't even realize the importance of. When we arrived back home, Grandma exclaimed "Law, what have you bought that child," and just laughed in the quiet way Grandma always laughed. When I arrived back at my home in the city, my Mother laughed even harder at the sight of that duck which I loved more than words could say. I wish I still had it, but unfortunately it got lost somewhere along the road of my life.

One summer Grandma decided it would be nice for me to learn to do embroidery. So when I went I took a stamped dresser scarf and the colored threads my mother and I chose. It was to be a work of art. On each end there were two parakeets along with some flowers. I had a little green and yellow parakeet, and my "city Grandma" had a blue one. So I decided to embroider the birds on the scarf to match. It turned out to be harder than I had imagined, but Grandma and I persevered. I did my best, and Grandma helped on some of the harder parts. When I got back home, my Mother helped me finish it. Somehow that scarf survived over the years and the moves that I made with my family and later my husband. After my oldest daughter was grown, I gave it to her. She was thrilled to have something that had needle work that my Mother, Grandmother and I contributed to. Being an antique dealer made her appreciate it even more, and the fact that it was truly a stitch in time.

Starbird55, Phyllis Ann








 


Poems for You

By Connie (CSThomas@aol.com)




The postman brought a package....
set it down by her back door
It was from a book store
Carefully she unwraps it
What could it be - no book had she ordered ?
Inside was this leather bound book
called ' Poems For You'
Jenny quickly remembered a beautifully wrapped box
in the window of this book store
' Someone could win this Poet's book of poems' ~


Had she won the contest?
She remembered putting in her name!
The memories came rushing back
and with shaking hands,
she unwrapped the small box first;
it was a memento from the book store
She picked up the book
ran her hands over it's leather cover
containing poems she had dreamed of winning ~


She lovingly holds it in her hands
It was typed in beautiful script, silently, she cries....
after all, Jenny never won any thing in her life
Although, she did win a box of chocolates one time
but now, she holds a ' book of his poems '
the most gifted of all Poets ~


She had often wondered who was the winner
or if they even had a drawing
After all, it had been many years since,
but joy was not in her heart
She had never gotten to meet the poet
Did he come in for a book signing
and she wasn't notified;
the one she admired from afar ? ~


Spellbound she sat,
carefully opening the book
looking to see if he signed it
He did..... and even wrote her name
Tears welled up in her eyes again....
A treasure she will forever covet
Quickly she ran to her desk....
pen in hand to write a thank you!
Will he know how proud I am?
Sadly she thinks.... I doubt he'll ever know !.... ~


" I can't thank you enough, My Poet....
my dream has finally come true! " ~









 


Small Town Memories

By susi Taylor (Texaswishr@aol.com)




Aurora, Missouri, childhood days so long ago, but the memories are as vivid sometimes as if I were transported back in time to live them again. It was the best of both worlds it seems, to have one set of grandparents who lived in the city, small tho it was, and the other set who lived outside of the town on a large farm. So there are memories of White Park with its swimming pool, of shopping in the stores on the town square with it's courthouse imperiously sitting in the middle. Unless one knew where they were going in that building, which door to use might have been confusing because all four sides were identical.

And there was the Princess Theatre, Dye's Drugstore, and the Bank Hotel. My first crush on a boy was the owner's son of the drugstore. I was fourteen and he was sixteen. I would go there and sit at the soda fountain and he would make me a chocolate coke. Now, everytime I have one, he comes to mind. I remember walking up McNatt Avenue from town on the way back home. I passed the street with the roller skating rink, a couple second hand stores, the big white house with its big columns that made it look like something out of Gone With The Wind. That house was spooky though. Seems that the doctor who once lived there had murdered his wife in that house. Or maybe he was just accused of it, but it was a spooky house anyway. On up the street was a house with a picket fence all around it and I would hold a stick against it all the way past so I would hear the clacking of it against the pickets.

At the end of McNatt was Hawthorne Street and Grandma and Grandpa Stoddards big white house with all its porches, the huge trees, the garden, grape arbors, and the shed where Grandma kept the guinea pigs she raised for some company who paid her for doing it. There, on one of the porches, was an old porch swing where Grandma would sit and snap beans and tell me stories. I have often wondered what happened to the old quilt that we sat on. It was there as long as I could remember.

Then there was Grandpa and Grandma's farm outside of and down the road from Aurora. I learned how to milk a cow, feed chickens, take the cows out and bring them back from pasture for evening milking along with Bud, the old three-legged Border Collie who would nip at their legs and keep them in line. He didn't really need my help, but it was fun anyway. There was no running water at the house but there was the well from which came the coldest spring water. It was always fun to drop that bucket down on its rope and wind the crank to bring it back up full of its dripping goodness. I fed the chickens and slopped the hogs too. The chickens were free range but would come a-runnin' when I would stand in the barnyard tossing out their feed and calling, "Here chick, chick, chick". I loved my childhood vacations with both sets of grandparents. No one could have ever asked for better ones and I hated when we had to go back home. Not sure if these memories come "flooding" over me. It may be just one little thing that will bring one back and the rest just quietly follow. These times are the ones that make growing old alright.








 


Memories Come Flooding Back to Me

By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)




Though I'm only twenty-two
Memories,,I have a few.
By the time I'm sixty-five
I'll wonder who is still alive.


Willy I'll remember your name
And how you played your sneaky game.
When my hair has gone to gray,
I'll remember how I felt that day.


Young as I am, I've learned a lot.
Some of it, I'd have as soon forgot.
When I am wrinkled and old
I'll have that memory bright and bold.


We never said good-bye that night.
I cried until the sun's first light.
When my tears were finally dry,
I knew you had meant "Good-Bye".


Some memories linger, always new.
When I'm old there'll be a few.
They will be from my youth,
On how to sort lies from truth.









 


Give Me A Sweet Memory

By Mary Mizrany (MusingByMary@aol.com)




Give me a sweet memory
that brings to my heart a smile;
one that is poignant and tender
perhaps will somewhat beguile.


Let's take a trip down memory lane,
bet there a thousands there;
O, here is one I cherish
I see the old rockin' chair.


Mother has the two of us
one of each comfy knee;
singing her favorite songs
just rocking brother and me.


Here comes another so funny,
it's grandma and grandpa's farm;
that hayride with kids stacked together
laughing and keeping warm.


Grandmother in the kitchen
fryin' up sweet apple fritters;
tummy's hungry~mouths awaterin'
we'll eat til we get the jitters:-)


Here comes tha one humdinger,
tis' brother n me at the creek;
swingin' from grape vines 'n
landin' SPLASH ...kinda burns the cheek!


High school fill'd with memories
crushes, sock hops, fads;
Beebop's the rage 'n sweet Patti Paige
'N rock n roll gave parents the mads!


Here comes marriage and children,
what precious memories are these;
Fairy tales, pigtails, cub scouts
kids learning how to say "please"!


Weddings to plan 'n dresses to find,
celebrations, showers and such;
Maids of honour ~ best men ~ clergy
I hold each memory 'n love so much.


My memory lane is SOOOO long,
the reunions~revivals~so fair;
Treasures I hold in my heart evermore,
'N sometimes wish I were there:-)









 


Memories Come Flooding Back to Me

By Lilly (Lilprincessitali@aol.com)




There are many..Memories come back from time to time.
Lately I thought of my grandparent's thick vines filled with grapes.
Every year at this time, I would go to my grandparent's home.
I would check the grapes and find them ripe.
I pulled them off the vine, wiped them on my T-shirt and ate them
I had no breakfast and lunch, so I gobbled I them non stop..
They were juicy and so good. Within an hour,I was feeling full
I said hi to grandpa and said a few words. He was sweating
from working in the garden..Shortly grandma came home..
I spent many weekends with them..One weekend I found him
in the basement..I was down there awhile. He was getting
ready to make wine..I played their little slot machine and talked
with him. He showed me the big stove and opened the big pan lid
with lots grapes in it..I apologized for eating grapes off the vine.
He said not to worry as there's so many more, for two more batches.
I asked him how he learned to make wine. He told me the story
that his parents made it, living in Italy and they showed him how.
He took a spoon and asked me to taste it. He said it was not ready
Yea,it tasted sour..He said he will put a little more sugar in there.
The following next weekend, he poured me a glass and it was
a little bitter, but just right and oh so good. Typing this, I could go
for a glass of that wine right now. My grandparents have passed away
and I miss them. I drove by their house several years ago, it got sold.
The grape vines are gone. The memory lingers on and on.














         

 

 






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