Remnants of the Past

Buddy and I were part of the Braves baseball team, circa 1970 or so. We were kids about 12 and 14 years old. One of my dearest aunts, who was by marriage but closer than blood in many ways bought our baseball uniforms each summer. My aunt Velma Grant was one of the sweetest women I ever knew. I can’t love her enough for what she meant to us. People used to say they didn’t know how the Grant men got such good wives. It is true, I don’t remember any of the aunts, or my mother that were not soulfully good Christian women, devoted to their husbands and probably much better than they deserved. But aunt Velma, well, I think she loved us more than our uncle did. She drove out in the country almost every Sunday and picked us up for church, fed us after and then brought us home. I can still see her writing in her tablet, the minutes of the church. Although I don’t remember the exact date I was baptized, I can rest assured she wrote it down somewhere and in the archives of the church somewhere it is written. I could write on and on about my aunt Velma and although this story sounds like it is about her at this moment, it’s really not, I just get lost in then. Getting back to baseball though. Buddy was always the ball player, I was just the little brother saddled to a team. I loved it though, it was one social event that we all looked the same. We had the same uniform that differentiated no one. You wouldn’t know who was poor and who wasn’t, thank you aunt Velma. One evening, getting lost in the game, getting deep in the 8th inning, Buddy, myself and several other boys were sitting in the dugout. To my horror, who can you imagine showed up drunker than Cooter Brown? It was my dad, not the nice Jekyll dad that had been drinking beer, it was the Hyde drunk that had hit the liquor bottle. He was always a different person with this kind of intoxication.  As if I didn’t already have enough insecurities playing ball and being small for my age, now one of my biggest fears was coming to fruition. The stands were relatively full, so there were a lot of people that saw my dad. My dad started getting loud, and obviously not in the right frame of mind to understand the game. He began yelling about us being in the dugout, that we should be out on the field playing and that if he needed to, he knew how to get us out there. This was probably one of the most embarrassing events I ever lived through. Dad was causing such a ruckus that the coach asked us if we wanted to go ahead and make sure dad got home, a polite way of saying get your dad out of here. Thankfully, we all learned to drive early, me included. I learned to drive in an old 1963 Ford Fairlane column shift. Buddy and I finally got our dad to the car and Buddy drove us home. I felt ashamed for a long time after that, so much so that I never played another ball game of any kind in my life, other than having to play in PE class. Only Buddy knew how deeply that affected me. There was no way I was ever going to set myself up for that immense humiliation again, despite Buddy’s infernal encouragement. Buddy played and continued to play throughout high school. I was always there though. I was his biggest fan, through the cold, wind and rain. I was always there, unless dad saw fit for us to do something else. By now, the school system knew how my dad was. I know some of the coaches went lightly on Buddy when he had to miss practice. So many things I experienced with my siblings, but Buddy and I continue to pick up remnants of the past and share them. In reading this story, it goes from good too bad. The feeling my siblings and I often felt. As I turn my head, I can see those little boys and remember every moment. I visualize Buddy swinging a crooked stick as I throw either clods of dirt are small rocks as we practiced baseball. I can see the tin cans we put in place for our bases and I can literally see the laughter bombard Buddy’s face as he hits the rock with that old stick. He was fun and in writing about him makes the words seem like a dance across the page. I love you brother!

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)

Memory Ladder

As I climb the ladder to my memory collection, much like the world’s largest library, my mind slides back and forth like that ladder as if putting books back on the shelf. I see sad memories, delightful memories, short memories, recurrent memories and that memory, the one that is waiting to be heard, wrapped in satin and warmth and tied with a bow of safety. Of course, it’s home, yet it’s a different house and a different time. My boys are small again and I have a chance to see them as they used to be, before they became men. I miss them. If you have a child, close your eyes and remember the smell of their hair after their bath as they crawl up in your lap just to be held or rocked. Maybe they were scared, maybe they were just sleepy and wanted that feeling of security. Do you remember, is it coming back to you? The care, nurture and work it took to get them to kindergarten and hating to leave them. Yes, I was one of those dads that always went to the first day of school with my boys and I would do it all over again. I wish in this memory I could go back and change a few things, things that would have somehow made it easier for them, a better choice, a decision, a wait for them to be a little older, a little bigger before they started that journey. But remember, although dreams and memories transform us into time travelers, they cannot change what has been. Alex is playing soccer, he’s four. It is hot outside and he’s playing as hard as he can. All of a sudden, he’s walking off the field. Alex! Go back, your team is still playing. “I’m hot and tired, I’m done”. Laughing all the while and shaking my head. It’s not poor sportsmanship, it is a determined, headstrong little boy that’s done. Ken is in daycare and is about three, oh my goodness, every parent needed a Ken. How many times did daycare call us at work. Ken won’t take a nap, Ken this and Ken that. Ken always thought he had to be the teacher. “Don’t touch the bird”, “aren’t you too big to pull your pants all the way down to use the bathroom”? “Don’t you know how to use a tissue”? “Aren’t you going to wash your hands”? “Why don’t you chew with your mouth closed”? Dad, please get me “Crayola’s, I don’t like rose art”. (Imagine all these words said with no R sound). Can I have those pens”? “I need new paint and art boards”! While Alex at that age only wanted Hot Wheels and computerized game boys, etc. Today Ken is an awesome artist and has done beautiful artwork from paintings to exquisitely decorated cakes. He has modeled for magazines, has done commercials and film, is well versed in music and can still play the saxophone. He is a fantastic husband and is hoping to have his PhD in a couple of more years. Alex is wise beyond his years, he had to be.  He was dealt a couple of bad cards during his formative grade school years.  Ok, his 2nd and 4th year, since we’re keeping it real and it is a memory. My wife and I home schooled him from the age of 14. It was one of the best decisions we ever made.  He can take any computer apart, put it back together and code just about anything it needs. He has a year under his belt in computer programing and gaming and plans to go back to school. Alex still reads music, can play the saxophone and is a lover of music. His soul resonates that soft, unconditional love he gets from his mother. My boys have made me proud beyond words and continue to do so. The fog is rolling in as these words end, for they too are turning into a memory as the last letter of each word is written. I climb back upon my ladder and slide to the memory side of my library. I am saddened to put this one back in it’s box, for it is pleasant and soothing and easily relived. Hold your dreams and memories close, hold your children closer, for each memory has it’s end only to be resurfaced by its calling.

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)

The Prettiest Girl in the World

Growing up was met with special disabilities in many areas of mine and my sibling’s lives. Someone recently told me I could write about my mother all I want, so I will again today. From the eyes of a little boy, she was the most beautiful girl in the world. In 1945 my mom met my father and married. The next year, they were blessed with twin girls. There have been times when men of my dad’s age would tell me that my mother was one of the most beautiful women ever to hit the streets of our town and they didn’t know how my father ever caught her. There is a chuckle in my mind as I remember the elderly gentleman telling me this story. He said, “there were five of us boys that ran together and he was the ugliest one of us all and he ended up with the prettiest girl”. My dad passed away in 1989. My mother was 63. She never once looked at another man and never dated anyone else. When asked why, she would sheepishly grin and say, “I don’t want to raise another baby”.  As the marriage was underway and baby after baby came, life settled in and struggles became their routine. Unfortunately, the routine had changed my mother. You see, my mother began to have delusions. Some of them were of grandeur and others  were slight, with voices she didn’t understand and had no intention of playing part in their list of charades. I never remember my mother being that gregarious woman the twins and my mother’s sisters speak of, the one that easily made decisions and was the first to volunteer. I remember many fun times and many times of grief. I am sure as years progressed, for better or worst as the vows say, my mom grew worse in mind and spirit, surely causing my dad to drink more. Knowing what I know now as an adult, it was probably the only way he had to cope with someone he thought had changed, a different woman than he married. Even so, that doesn’t make it right. This is the progression of the disease schizophrenia. If one could be blessed in the disease, we were. She never lost her graciousness and kindness. Many years after hearing stories, I thought it was my fault that mom was the way she was. As a child, I was not equipped with the understanding of any disease process, much less that schizophrenia had peaks and valleys.  Even though a little older than usual, my mom became afflicted soon after I was born. As I understand, immediately after I was born. Mentally, mother had no coping skills for the monster that had invaded her mind.  My grandmother and grandfather took many a night with me and took me home with them often. These are stories I have been told from my aunt Audrey and Aunt Dora who are no longer around to tell the story. I suppose this is why I had such a grateful heart for my grandparents. The one strange anomaly in my life is that in 1993 when my grandmother died at age 93, I have no recollection of her passing or being at her funeral. I have been to dozens of funerals throughout my life, but hers is a complete blank. I know I was there, my wife tells me I was. There is a reason, not yet figured out why this loss of time has not made itself known. As mom became better, I stayed home more, and soon mother found herself pregnant again and twice more after that. At times, she was a shell of a woman, thin and frail. It is at this time I have told the story of my sisters being our teachers. After the 1989’s death of my father, there were many months one of us kids would stay the night with my mom. After several months, mom said she was ready to stay alone. As time continued by, my mother continued to improve. Her life became a real life, one of smiles and endearment for family and her sisters. It was like a remembrance had been shown to her that had long been hidden in the weak, darkness of her mind. For over 21 years mother improved and was able to live alone, not having that fear of the unknown that included my father, even though she missed him forever, and desperately. He was spoken of often with tenderness of heart and tears of memories of the past. Her sisters would come to visit, meals were laid out, laughter was present, and her green eyes glittered with joy. No, she was not completely healed, because even though we know my dad had a large part to play in much of her madness, he also played an even larger part in her learning to love. My mother was all love. At the end, we were once again blessed with the prettiest girl in the world.

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)

They are Whole as One

Their story is one of love, heartache and destiny. As you see, my mother was the epitome of love, she didn’t know anything else. When she gave, she gave all. My dad knew this and sometimes advantages were taken for granted by it. He knew there was no other who could love him the way my mother did, nor would any other do so. Call it dysfunction, call a spade a spade. For whatever it’s worth, growing up in my home taught us many things, but the most was love. I can see the above picture as if it were yesterday, mom feeling safe, holding on to my dad with a gentle, feather soft touch, holding her head against his head, her heart full. He, laying there enjoying the peace of mind and their stationary indulgence of each other as she cradles him in an engulfing solitude. They are whole as one. A hard day working in the garden to feed nine children and an even harder evening of washing clothes outside on a rub board, tells their life story. Yes, in all of it’s splendor, this was our living room, the old couch having seen way too many days. The wall in it’s prodegenerative state with the drywall tape absent. The ever-present signs of a hard day of work written across their clothes. Dad lying there like a child being caressed by his mother. Going deeper into the lives within the photo, one can feel the pulse of my dad’s heart in my mom’s arm. She can feel the heaviness of his shoulders on her chest, as he feels her breath through his hair. I can see the often absence of tenderness is my dad’s folded hands, a retreat, relaxation from the demands of others who were looked up to, more important than him. This photo is proudly owned by me and reminds me of them both. Reminding me of my truths. I display it proudly without reservation or embarrassment. For it is them, in their finest. This familiar, yet unorthodox union of two people who couldn’t be more different, look the same here. Their ideas and what is left of their dreams culminate in a loving spirit of hardship, yet endurance. This photo is not sad, yet it is brutally realistic, supporting the values I hold dear. The values that I always knew were there, even when my dad was at his worst. If only you could look at this photo and its absence of materialistic value, you might feel the reason there was a need for us to carry the contents of this photo forward to appreciate our lives, our abundances of joy and recognition that fruitful things often come from the droughts that others go through to make it better for others. When you look at this photo, don’t feel sorrow, don’t feel judgement. If anything, feel a little envious if you have never had this kind of love. No, it was never perfect, obviously. Yes, it was often scary, and many are the times I can remember if I choose to do so. But for this picture, let me remember them in their best light of one another. I will consider it an honor for anyone who looks at this picture and understands the love that blooms behind a tattered backdrop.

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)

Memory Lane

Where does your memory lane begin and end? Is there an end? Each memory is sparked by one defining characteristic and that is because it impacted you. Whether or not it is a glance of the past, where history lies, or whether it was this morning where possible changes can be made, and history can be rewritten. Memory lane lies in your mind and your perception of why you revisit it. My memory lane is ever constant, hiding around every corner, surprising me sometimes. Some of my memories seem to never end. There is an addition of the story that lives on forever, that continues to be told, thus not ending. I have so many twists and turns in my memory lane, that I don’t think they can ever all be told. Some memories are just little flashbacks, like the time my brother Buddy found a 2X6 board that had been painted with an enamel-based paint. It was white, shiny and very slick. This time, the story is on him. Well, Buddy got the bright idea to bring it in the house, which was already wrong. Rodney was small, yet remembers, I asked him last week. It was getting on in the evening and it was nearly time for dad to be home from work when Buddy brought in this stupid board, propped it against the couch and we three began to climb on the couch and slide down the board over and over. Of course, mom kept telling us to get it outside, but, boys will be boys! Her warnings fell on deaf ears apparently, for no sooner than she told us to get the board out of the house, my dad walks in and catches us sliding on the board. Needless to say, we all scurried and ran under the kitchen table. Dad came in the kitchen and told us to come out. Well, Rodney and Buddy came out and got their dues, but I didn’t want to. I knew what was going to happen. I remember saying “if I come out will you not fwoop” me? He said no, “I won’t whip you”. I will never forget the pronunciation of that word. Well, he lied. I came out and got a good spanking and was sent to bed with Rodney and Buddy and that’s where we stayed till morning. Other memories in random float by before I can finish the ones I’m working on, like the evening my dad cooked a goat outside in a fire. I can remember using a lot of catsup on mine, it was terrible! I remember stealing money out of my dad’s wallet and waiting till morning to walk to the store and buy a bag of candy. Yes, it was a twenty-dollar bill, dad missed it and wondered how we got all that candy. I lied and told mom that someone had given it to us. I didn’t have a chance to get under the kitchen table, and I never could find where I buried the change in the dirt, bills and coins. Twenty dollars was a lot of money in 1963 and probably should have been questioned when a four-year-old goes to pay with it. Anyway, for a day we were happy. I remember the first time I ever flew in a plane, I was so scared that I wouldn’t get up to go to the bathroom. By the time I got to the terminal, I thought my bladder would burst, as if this is something you wanted to know. You see how many twists and turns can abruptly change in my memory lane? I see my older brothers playing football in the sleet, while I’m in the football stands wrapped in a blanket. I need a passing lane. LOL…..

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)

The Sounds of Silence

I’m not sure what era of my life I am in at this point, all I know is that it interests me to know who came before me. I have many old pictures that I look at and some old treasures that once sat on the table of a grandmother and an old wedding ring that was placed on the finger of a grandfather. I still touch the walls and furniture my mother touched, somehow finding a solace there. I Am reminded of my mother when I look into her sister’s eyes and I am reminded of my fathers face when I look at my brothers and at times when I look into the mirror. As I gaze into old pictures of over 100 hundred years ago I am told the story of the life I find inside them. No words are spoken, yet they speak an untold story by merely looking at the surroundings and expressions they hold. Life was hard, but there was a continued perseverance in their souls. My father had five brothers and two sisters. You will only see the first four children as you glance into this picture as well as a great uncle I never knew. It will take you back to a time most of us my age wouldn’t know and have to build the surroundings from what we see. But they knew, and they knew it well. I can imagine my grandfather, the tall dark headed fellow with the hat on his head loading the pulp wood they are about to cut. I can see my grandmother holding my late uncle Johnny, who today would be way over 100 years old had he lived, but he was only four when he died. Life was hard. I can see my aunt Vicy sitting on the log, staring into a blank lens and only wondering what would be made of it. I can imagine how hard my grandmothers work was as she helped in the forest while taking care of her children. I can see her there, standing by my grandfather, a team, yet with little emotion observed. I never knew him. I can feel the elements that are infested within the forest. I can feel the limbs slip by when walking and scratch my skin. I can hear the sounds of silence only told by the inhabitants that belong. I can see the other uncles as they are, as children, held stationary in what was, unable to move any longer, held captive in a moment of time that allows me to decipher their life. I envision these children, blood of my own, working under their father’s orders, much as I did in order to help their family survive and meet the everyday need. As I look at the old tree saw my late uncles are holding, I can hear the slices of each stroke the saw made through the tree and the grainy saw dust that is falling, this done by what seems to be little boys. I assume it to feel damp, coarse, yet at that time still alive until the last push of the saw erases the existence of the tree. A tree that helped complete the forest. One can easily see the small hands of children. I can see that this is an uncomfortable situation for some. There are no smiles, perhaps that’s the way photographs were done in that day. I can see the shyness possessed by the children, as they each have something to hold on to for security. My aunt sitting on the log looks lonely, out of place in a picture that was at best a flash that immortalized the way they were that day. It doesn’t go unnoticed that the weight of my grandfather is resting heavily across an axe. I can forsee after this day’s hard work that a meal was prepared outside with tired hands. A meal made with what was probably game found within the woods, deep in East Texas somewhere. Looking into the depths of the picture, in its black and white existence, far beyond I see a greenery that backdrops a little more pleasant, softer look for each of them in the wilderness. I venture to vision this very spot where this family of mine stood still exists yet doesn’t look the same. A place if I could find it, would allow me to touch and feel the evidence that they were there. The oldest little boy standing behind his sister on the log lived long enough to bury his parents and all but one of his siblings, including my father, who was the baby of the family, and was born way after this photograph was taken. I think about what my uncle saw in his younger siblings, what memories he had, and I am sure he wondered why he had to witness the loss of all that he had known as a child. Looking through years gone by, in what seem to be ancient pictures, I can hear the sounds of silence.

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)

The Old Man in the Woods

As if being called by the wild, I turn right coming from work, off HWY 83 and I find myself at our little farm again. It is becoming spring and I want to smell the dampness in the corner of the shelter-belt, but most of all, I want to visit my old friend the giant cottonwood, the oldest man in the forest. As I make my way through the shrubbery and winters debris, I find him, and his limbs are reaching upwards as if stretched by the release of gravity. His limbs are spindly, spidery and his leaves are just presenting. Time is taking its toll on my childhood friend. I think of my own age, edging near 60 now and remember he was large when I was a child. I wonder how old he is, the old man. I bet he is at least 100. I don’t have to ask how the environment and elements have treated him, for that is evident. He clings to life as if he still has something to say, even though half of his body has now fallen away from itself. For another season though, he will be in his glory soon and I will remember climbing up there, his leaves as wide and bigger than my own hands. I can see where the water below used to be, but is now just a dried basin stream, artificially made by the draining of the city wells. Whispers of the wind are roaming through the trees, the movement of them is erratic. I stand on what was once part of the old cottonwood, it creeks and small pieces of bark turn loose, dusting toward the ground as if saying it is time for me to go and I am saddened. Through the saplings you can see another large tree here and there, different kinds, sizes and shapes, some trimmed by wildlife, others growing through the shade as tall single poles. Many are the times laughter met the breeze and blended with the sound of the rustling old man in the wind. Brothers and a little sister scurrying there. Little sister mostly watching as she clutches her little doll, her friend, not a boy. Both of their hair is tasseled in the breeze. She stumbles through the underbrush, all the while not really realizing so many eyes are watching, making sure she is safe, even though we are probably hanging from the limbs like monkeys. Randy always interested and looking for whatever he might can take apart or burn. He needed watching just as much as little sister did, just ask him when you see him. For a moment I was taken back with visions of what used to be and how everything was so large and grandiose. How the trees and the old man made us feel so small, yet protected underneath their shadows from the sun. I look back at the old man with a tear in my eye, for him too, time has not stood still. His small leaves wave back at me as I touch him gently, with a pat and say thank you for giving part of your life to me. The old man may only be a tree to some, but even in his broken glory, I know he remembered me today.

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)

Pecan Pie

As I was at the grocery store today looking around, buying a few groceries and getting things we needed, I passed by the pecan pies. Instinctively I could smell them and remembered how my sister Linda loved them. When I was younger, before I married, we would visit as often as we could. Her husband was a military man, so he was stationed in many places that I was able to drive or catch a bus to. I don’t know why it was a thing of ours, but we always had to have pecan pie. One of the first stops we would make was the commissary. So, through the years, it has become a connection with us, a tradition I suppose, mostly at holidays now. Sometimes it is the smallest of things we remember that causes us to remember a joyful time. When was the last time you sat and thought of the past and found something there that took you from the present? There are many shiny pennies far away, in a distance called the past. We can see and smell them, but we can no longer pick them up. Don’t be the one not putting those pennies in the pocket of your heart. Someday, that pocket may just get full and a penny might fall out. I love when that happens. The pecan pie is representing the bond that my sister and I have, a representation of the past that adhered to some moment that was endearing.

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)

A Story of Their Own

I was recently asked if I liked writing about my life. I answered in a quick “yes”. I do like writing about my life, because not only is it therapeutic for me, I know there is someone out there that relates to much of what I write about. Is it always easy to write about memories and nostalgia? No, not always. Sometimes when you leave your life on the table like I do, it brings back other memories that are not always welcome, and probably leaves the reader wondering if that really happened or was that really true. I never want it to come across to the reader as just a story. As a very good friend told me, “you write from your heart”. That was an amazing compliment, because it is true. There are many laughs, good times and yet sorrow within all of us, despite what turn of events caused one life to seem harder or better than the other. Life would not be real without these adversities of life and the things I have seen and felt. Many new thoughts and memories have bloomed and continue to grow, for the good. Some of the life’s events I put on paper are written through streaming tears. Others, are written through turned up lips, morphing into laughs. Laughs like the time my childhood friend Cyndi and I would chew grandmas sugar cane and without her knowing it, spit it down her cistern. Yes, the same cistern on her screened in back porch I saw her draw water from so many times. Cyndi, when you read this, you will remember, I know you. Cyndi is my life’s longest friend. She lived next door to my grandmother when we were so, so young. She lives in south Texas now, with her beautiful family. We do not see one another often in our adult years, life gets in the way. But, when I do see her, it is like yesteryear. We never have a loss for words. We are still that little boy and girl from the past, best friends. I thank Cyndi for being in my life as a child, she never judged and was always, always my friend, and I think she knows how important she was to me, and how the void she filled was never taken for granted. It seems as if when we were together we could get in to a lot of things we shouldn’t, like the time grandma caught us playing in her bathtub. Anyone who knew my grandma, knew she wasn’t about boys and girls being in the tub together, even though we were only 4 or 5 years old. Moving forward, living at the farm I remember Rodney standing on the back of someone’s car, I’m not sure whose it was, but they began to drive, and Rodney fell off and hit his head, he slept for hours. Not knowing then what happened, we know today that he must have had a severe concussion, for he slept and slept after that. The time Buddy and I were sitting on the tail gate of daddy’s station wagon while he was pulling an old flat bed trailer with iron wheels up the road, hit a bump, knocked Buddy off and ran over him with the iron wheels. Thank God it was sandy soil and he was resilient. The time Randy got his arm hung in the electric ringer at the “washeteria” as my mother called the laundry. He put his hand in it and it ran is arm up past his elbow. He was swollen for days. The laughs Cindy would give us when she would try to feed her doll real food. I think she still has that old doll. The sadness we felt when my dad would fight with Kenny and Johnny, literally. The times the twins would lock us out of their room and turn their little, lunch box sized record player up high, it’s little speaker unable to handle the noise it made. Their door didn’t have a lock on it, so they got a small block of wood and with a single nail, nailed it to where they could turn it and keep their door shut. The time my mother opened the cabinet door at the farm and a bull snake fell out of it. The time my dad blew up the pressure cooker, got burned, jars busted, glass went everywhere and whatever he was canning went all over the ceiling. The times my twin sisters began having their own children. All these people played a role in making my memoir of memories. Memories that cascade over one another, making a story of their own, closing and reopening chapters of my life.

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)

The Waterfall

Another road trip down memory lane takes me back to Roaring Springs, Texas. Recently ravaged by a fire on many of the acres around the springs waterfall; this makes me recall swimming there some in the summers when I was a kid. The swimming pool today looks much different than it did when I was a kid and certainly different than it did when my mom and dad were courting. Over the years, the public pool has been sold to a privately-owned country club. The swimming pool encompasses three acres of property, with fresh water flowing out of it continually down into a large stream. To anyone that has ever been there and swam, they know this is some of the coldest water, probably in Texas. The water comes down a small falls, one that has deteriorated in output over the years, but still falling just the same. The temperature of this water is 63 degrees Fahrenheit year-round. You just have to jump in or you won’t get in. The area where the springs exists has a lot of folklore and history attached to it. It was once one of Quanah Parkers (the Indian chief) favorite places to stop and rest. It is also part of what they called The Quanah Parker Trail. It is a site that was probably visited by Francisco Vasquez de Coronado during his expedition of 1541. He was an explorer, born in Salamanca, Spain. It is interesting to look above the falls and imagine what it has seen in its days. The roaming of buffalo across the plains and other animals calling this place their home and watering hole. The gathering of Indians, using rocks to grind their corn. Vividly seeing the echoes of time through the ripples and drips of water from the falls. The same water fall that helped sustain the life of ancestors and explorers. People are drawn to the falls. It is tranquil, and the earth’s life continues to flow there. Four years ago, this November, my son married his lovely wife in Roaring Springs. They have beautiful pictures taken at the water falls. I still have an aunt, uncle and several cousins that live there. It is a community of less than 400 people. Many of my favorite memories abide there. Even after 50 years I can hear the roar of the falls if I close my eyes and listen.

Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)