The Rural Voice, 1989-01, Page 40YOUR ONE STOP
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38 THE RURAL VOICE
NOTEBOOK
Sounds of Silence
by Cathy Laird
Childhood on the farm: few memories are as vivid, as whole, as sweet
and bittersweet. The farm of Cathy Laird's childhood happens to be
in central Florida, but the memories are as particular, and as
universal, as the memories of rural people everywhere.
"Silence is golden," someone said
long ago. How true this is. Noise,
like talk, is cheap. When was the last
time you enjoyed silence, pure and
simple? It's healthy, soothing, and
doesn't cost anything. My apprecia-
tion for silence came early in life.
As a child, I spent "be -cations"
with my paternal grandparents on their
16 -acre hobby farm in central Florida.
My grandfather retired to "get away
from the rat race." In 1952, the year
I was born, "Mamaw" and "Pop"
bought an old Florida cracker house
with a steel roof and wood siding.
They installed the first indoor plumb-
ing the house had and built a porch
along the west side. Pop had a few
Danish Landrace hogs and did not too
badly at feeding 14,000 day-old chicks
(at a time) to the broiler stage for the
Purina Feed Company.
As a young child, I loved the
opportunities I had to spend days or
even weeks there with my grand-
parents. My grandmother, slight and
white-haired, was the most peaceful
person ever to have lived. She shared
many of life's secrets with all of her
grandchildren.
She took us for walks in the woods
and knew the names of all the trees:
hickory, pines, and more than 50 types
of oaks. She showed us where to dig
for buried Indian arrowheads and
"doodle bugs." She let us sneak
upstairs to raid the 50 -pound bag of
roasted peanuts kept in a dark corner.
She showed us how to find wild
blackberries, so plentiful that we filled
her big enamel bowl in half an hour.
We weeded and hoed in her garden
and learned about vegetables and how
they grew. None of it was work.
We loved to hold her hand and
walk, with the milkpail swinging,
down to the small field to milk the
Shorthorn cow. As we walked, we
would try to steer each other into a
fresh cow pie, laughing all the while.
Later, when we weren't looking, our
bare legs would be blasted with a
squirt of warm milk. I can still see
that white enamel pail three-quarters
full.
E. D. Collins — "Pop"
And supper! No one could fry
okra, eggplant, or chicken like
Mamaw could on her old gas stove.
The most important time of the day
came after the dishes were washed and
dried and put away. Mamaw would
leave the kitchen and go outside to sit
in her favorite old metal chair. For a
while, no one would speak but just
"sit," as we all let the silence of the
fresh evening air cool our faces.
Florida nights take a long time to
settle in. We would brave some