Vibrations. Traveling from the brush hog deck through the PTO shaft and into the seat,the vibrations can put you in a trance, like some Buddhist monk seated in his temple, but this temple has four wheels, and smells of cut winter stubble and diesel fuel, not perfumed incense. The vibrations are hypnotic. They can really carry you back; back to the days of your youth, glory days and average days, happy days and sad days, colds days and warm days, even days like this day.
It's a typical Georgia summer night, warm and sticky, moon rays slither through the well worn blinds on the open window, casting eerie shadows on furniture that's familiar but not really familiar, like knowing the postman by sight, but knowing absolutely nothing about him otherwise. You know the well worn dresser and mirror were used by your mom when she was young but the connection is limited, in the same way a young child's understanding of time is limited. Waiting, like every other night spent here, for the sound and feel that holds both comfort and mystery, comfort in the feel and mystery in the sound, the whistle heard long before the vibration is felt, the anticipation giving way to the rhythm as it works it's way through the old floorboards, up the bed post to the mattress, from mattress to pillow, and there it is - the one thing that will bring sleep to a young mind, the vibration of an old train rolling down the tracks.
Sometimes the sound of that old train whistle could put you back in another century, make you look out the window to see if a long grey line of soldiers were marching down the moon-lit gravel drive, and sometimes it just reminded you that you weren't in your own house, but in a special house, a house you treasured above all others; grand-mama and granddaddy's house.
You see, the reason you couldn't wait for the old train to roll by was because it brought sleep and then sleep brought morning, and morning brought fun and adventure, but most of all it brought a love born of wisdom, in that grandparents have learned from mistakes made with their own children, and the grandchildren are beneficiaries of their repentance.
You knew it was morning because you could always smell the aroma of homemade biscuits or pancakes coming from the kitchen, you could see grand-mama working her magic, turning a pinch of this and a bit of that into the best tasting food you ever (or ever would for that matter) eat. Breakfast led to playing in the barn loft, or climbing the apple trees and picking some for her to make apple fritters, or picking blackberries. Evenings brought watching news of war in far off Southeast Asia, followed by granddaddy's favorite show "Gunsmoke", always amazed how that old recliner could elicit such loud and boisterous snoring before the first "Borax" commercial had run it's course.
You could hear him from any room in the house, granddaddy singing his old Gospel songs as he prepared for his preaching on Sunday. You tried to sing along but the lyrics were a little too advanced, but the melody was perfect, so you just hummed instead:
I am dwelling on the mountain,
Where the golden sunlight gleams,
O'er a land of wondrous beauty,
Far exceeds my fondest dreams;
Where the air is pure, ethereal,
Laden with the the breath of flowers,
They are blooming by the fountain,
'Neath the amaranthine bowers. *
But your favorite thing was just laying on the old porch swing, a porch shaded by two enormous oaks that gave cool relief from the hot Georgia days, and soaking in the peace and serenity of those days, days you now know you can never get back, making the memory of them all the sweeter.
You turn into the final row to cut, the end in sight shakes you out of your journey, but the feeling is still there, the vibrations continue, new vibrations replacing the old, amazed how things so simple can connect you to distant events and you realize how thankful you are for those vibrations, those good vibrations indeed.
* From Is Not This The Land Of Beulah?
Pork & Greens
When she returns she's going to run the booth at Cherry Street, Brookside, and possibly Broken Arrow.