Moments in Time

If you’ve wondered where I’ve been, I’ve been trolling through the card catalog of my mind. A place where rampant thoughts stream across a galaxy of intertwined memories that sometimes have to be hunted for. A place where familiar trails lead to memories not forgotten. Trails of moment’s in time that were not lost but are now worn deep from the walk back and forth to be found. These moments have just been waiting to be remembered, bursting forth as if to say, “tell this today”, making one smile for the gift of memories picked up from the lost and found.  I have several childhood marbles, different colors, all bearing the finger prints of the boys that lost them to me. I see my grandmother’s eyes magnified and distorted as she looks at me through thin rimmed glasses from another era, knowing now, with those glasses she saw me and looked at many things and people through those “windows to the soul” as people call their eyes. I have the knife my dad gave me in sooner years than today that has hardly been opened since his passing. Remembering him telling me that all boys needed a pocket knife for whittling and skinning fish. Remembering those hot summer days, much like today when my dad would take out the clippers and cut all of us boys hair. He never delivered the cut we might have wanted, but then again, he only knew one style for boys in the summer and that was to buzz them off. If I stop and close my eyes, it all becomes real again. I can feel the coolness of the glass marbles between my thumb and forefinger as I attempt to knock my friends marble out of the circle drawn in the dirt with a stick. I can feel the warmth from my grandmother’s body as she sits next to me, holding me with her frail hands, feeling them unnoticeable tremble as they held mine. I can feel my father’s thick fingers and heavy hand with a comb as he burrs the tow-headed hair from my head, hearing the clicking sound of scissors and the clippers all in my mind as I sit in a metal chair in the shade of our yard, with brothers waiting to be next. In the background I can hear the squawks of the chickens and the life of creatures all around that made life real and meaningful. Memories tucked away, bringing joy as I see the faces of near shock on my brother’s bald heads. It is a smile indeed now, more of a chuckle I suppose, seeing the awkward actions we all made in madness from not being in control. What a magnificent tool we carry around. It is with us always. It is now a tattered and worn old suitcase, becoming heavier with every passing year as thoughts and time are pressed and placed inside.

Copyright (Charles D. Grant)


The Four Winds of Time

I woke up early this morning, thank goodness. I usually do, but without an alarm clock. I am up by 03:15 on work days, so it is kind of frustrating for my circadian clock to be set at that time when it is my day off. As I awake, the surrounding elements in the dark are amplified and I am swept back many years, by a tidal wave of loud wind carrying small pebbles and sand that hit my bedroom window. What visitor is this that is so fervently grabbing my attention. It must be a visitor awakening me in this manner, but who? I lay there, closing my eyes, listening to the wind swirl around the corner of my house, hearing the limbs and rustling of the vines not yet in full glory beat against the fence. I am automatically reminded that I am not in that old house sitting in the field of sand in the country. My home is secured with nice brick and mortar with a metal roof and gazebo in the back yard. So familiar is the sound from my childhood, that I can hear the cable leading to the top of the old television antenna flap, slap and ping against the tall metal pole. I can imagine the snow and white spots in the black and white television set making the clarity and volume irritating. Irrationally finding nostalgia there, at a time that was mostly unpleasant. Especially as I am now sitting in my own living room almost 50 years later, in a room that is almost half as big as the old house we grew up in, watching a 58-inch, color, flat screen television, with clarity that rivals my own colored pictures in my mind. Beginning are the hues of morning peeking through the crystal glass door that opens to our living room. Soon the daylight will be clear, even though the wind continues. I hear the griping moans against the top of my fireplace, only stopped from entering in by a closed flue. Soon the clarity of outside will become cataracted by the different hues of dirt that will outline the horizon, covering the beauty that will reveal itself in its own time, it always does. Soon the locust trees will bloom, and I subconsciously worry that I will not get to smell them this spring because of the wind and sand that hits the delicate flower that drapes like white grapes. All you have to do is be near the fragrance and you have to stop to find out where this beautiful smell is coming from in this desolate sandy place.  A lone crackle can be heard outside, I know he is clinging onto the bending limbs of my large Pecan tree in the back yard. By now you would think Anemoi (God of the winds) would certainly be out of breath, but not yet. Our high school yearbook certainly has an appropriate name, the Zephyr, meaning west wind. The sun is peaking up and shines into the window behind me, slightly obscuring the screen of my computer. My wife has gotten up by now and is laying on the oversized couch that engulfs her as she lays there covered with a blanket made by her grandmother. She quickly began snoozing again when she became comfortable. My boxer, Lola has taken her place on the other, smaller divan, making it her own, rearranging the pillows for her comfort. Awake, watching the signs of security all around me as I finish my second cup of coffee, I know my visitor. The wind has awakened me to remind me that life is good, and I have been brought safely through the four winds of time.

Copyright (Charles D. Grant)