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Sitting 'Round the Table by Amy Ammons Garza  On a bright Autumn Sunday, my sister, Doreyl, and I took time out to walk up to the top of Ammons Mountain in Jackson County. Once there, after making our way through the jungle of overgrown weeds and hidden creeks crisscrossing our way, we finally found the old spring that had been used by Grandma, Grandpa and all their children. The shady bank of the mountain glistened with the birthing of icy spring water. Near the base of the bank, there was still a piece of pipe protruding from underneath a large rock with a full inch of water pouring forth. We smiled at each other, leaned over, and caught the freshness in our hands to have a drink of memories. Caught, then, in the spirit of the past, we set out across the flat crest of the mountain toward the rise where the old house had been. Weeds had claimed the old trail. We trudged on, slipping in our soggy shoes as “beggar lice” matted our jeans. Halfway there we saw the rock chimney, strong and proud, leaning on nothing. At its knees lay the ruins of what had been the welcoming light in the eyes of three young children coming to see their grandparents long ago. The rubble of wood was ribboned with the black diamond-flaked, tar-paper roof. Even in its surrender, the roof still looked as if it were a royal robe on the back of nobility. “Wow!” sang Doreyl to me. “Do you feel it?” Nodding, I returned her enthusiasm. Then, stepping gingerly, the two of us made our way onto the top of the weathered wood of Grandpa & Grandma’s house and sat down. In the quiet, the wind shook black walnuts from the old trees above the chimney. Walnuts danced here and there in the high sagegrass. A hawk dipped and soared in the blue distance. I glanced down. There, between the slats in the rubble, I saw the edge of what used to be the rough-cut kitchen table. A wave of nostalgia clouded my eyes. Then, I was there, sitting around that table, watching Grandma pull her big brown biscuits from the wood stove in the corner. I could smell the warm bread. “Here, honey, bring the platter over whilst I get the bacon drippin’s to pour overtop.” Grandma said. I was only tall enough to reach her apron strings. Presenting the platter, I could see the gravy bubbling on the eye of the stove, and hear the dull thud of oatmeal chatting away. Carrying the platter to the table, I felt all eyes turn to view this joy of the morning--Grandma’s biscuits. There they were...Mother and Daddy, Doreyl and David, Uncle Nealie and Aunt Lillie, Aunt Corie and Uncle Ray. There were Linda, Mike, and Kenneth, Uncle James and Grandpa. All of them...sitting around the table. They were laughing, their eyes shining with the moment. On the table were quart jars of canned peaches with large spoons stuck down inside them, platters of scrambled eggs and fatback, and wooden racks of dark, combed honey. I added the biscuits--and stepped back to the present. The warmth of the sun on my back, I leaned over and touched a piece of that table of old, and felt Doreyl’s hand on my shoulder. “Here,” she said. “Let’s eat.” She handed me a sandwich she had brought. “Let’s eat while we sit here; we’re in good company.” Those are the best of times...sitting ‘round the table. Remember? |
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