I originally posted this in my Myspace blog, but I feel that it really belongs here.

Why can't I stop thinking about wonderful
summers of my childhood where I wandered among the weeds and insects of
East Texas? I am 25 years old now. Ten years ago at this time, I was
walking the lonely roads of a small country town flirting with boys
shamelessly.  Running barefoot in the front yard
with my grandmother, playing baseball with her while my grandfather
watched us from the porch, or throwing a tennis ball on the roof and
catch it as it rolled down are among my favorite memories. The days
gone by are fresh in my mind. The Airhearts kitchen always smelled of
fresh baked bread and beans cooking on the stove. My grandmother always
made biscuits in a skillet in the oven, the left over biscuits were fed
to the dogs at the end of the day, the left over cornbread was saved to
mix with milk as a late night treat for my grandfather.

The
long hallways I ran through as a child were hard and smelled of mildew.
My grandfathers' shop always felt humid and smelled of lacquer thinner
and saw dust. I would help him build shelves (not really helped but I
was there), and he would tell me stories of roaming the plains as a
Native American, or having shootouts wit bandits of the old west.
Unfortunately, a time came when I realized that these stories were
fabricated and I would say, "Papoo, you're not that old, there's no way
that could have happened".  He would continue and insisted that every word was the gospel truth.

Early
mornings were filled with coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon. The
afternoons were a time for gardening, shelling peas and shucking corn.
Gardening used to be something I liked to do; I've lost my passion for
it though. The summer rains were my absolute favorite event. Thunder
would rumble, and I would be on the front porch in my bare feet before
the clouds could crash again. As the rain would fall, I would sit with
my two favorite people on the front porch and watch the steam rise from
the fiery street. Before my grandmother could grab the tail end of my
shirt, I was in the driveway playing in the mud. Soon my brown hair
would be matted and my feet would be covered in dirt. "JESSIE! You
better get your ass back on this porch girl," my grandmother would call
out to me. Pretending not to hear, I would stray farther from the house
and deeper into the down pour.  My grandfather was soon close behind me pretending to scold me, using me as an excuse to feel the cold on his skin.  He
would turn on the water hose and rinse my feet off before leading me
inside. "I use to do the same thing Jessie Dear, and so did Mickey."
Often my grandfather would make references to my father, and though I
did not know my father I felt close to him as Papoo pointed out many
similarities.  

Our
nights would wind down after watching the news and then I Love Lucy.
"Good night Jessie Dear," my grandfather would sing to me, "Good night
Papoo," I would reply. I slept in the same bed that my aunt had when
she was my age, my room was connected to the bathroom by a walk in
closet, my secret hiding place. If I was too excited to sleep, I would
sit in the walk in closet with my flashlight and go through the old
boxes kept there. My father's year books, old journals and notebooks
from his high school days were among the dusty treasures of my secret
spot.

 These are the times I took for
granted in the small town of Trinidad Texas, where my best memories
were born and where my heart still lives.