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Sunday, November 28, 2004 You Can Go Home Again, Part I
As Callie eased out of the first night of peaceful slumber she had experienced in quite a long time, even before she opened her eyes, she began to smile as she thought about the Thomas Wolfe book, You Can't Go Home Again. She hated to disagree with such a literary giant but, as she stretched out in her old, familiar, childhood bed, she could sense that the room was already aglow in lovely shades of yellow as the morning sun reflected off of the bedroom walls. She opened her eyes and smiled again, basking in that engulfing cocoon of early morning sunlight that brought the walls to life with a rich, golden hue. Through the door, she could hear her mother's faint humming along with some song that was playing on the radio, and she could smell the aroma of sizzling bacon and baking biscuits. This trip was a journey with myriad possibilities, and she knew that, at least for her, she had come home again. Her room was exactly as she had left it years before – she looked around and was immediately transported back to when she had lived in this house, and she felt the comfort and security that those feelings evoked. A slight tapping at the door jarred her back to the present, and Callie's mother whispered, “Are you awake yet?” “Yes,” she answered, and her mother pushed open the door slightly and said, “Breakfast will be ready in a few more minutes.” “Okay, Mom,” she answered, “I'll be right there.” She lingered a moment more between the cool cotton sheets, and then slipped into a tank and cut-off denims, pulled her blonde hair back into a loose ponytail, and padded, barefoot, down the hall toward the breakfast table. As usual, her mother had outdone herself … there was homemade biscuits, milk gravy, bacon, eggs, hash browns, grits, honey, jam, and freshly squeezed orange juice – enough to feed ten people, not just the three that were sitting down to the table. Callie had definitely missed good, old-fashioned, from-scratch, Southern cooking. Not that she couldn't do it herself; she just didn't have the time, patience or inclination to completely turn a kitchen upside-down for just two people, and it could never taste as good as her mother's cooking always did, and probably wouldn't be appreciated anyway. After grace, her dad asked what her plans were for the day. How could she tell him, when she wasn't really sure herself? What would she say? “Oh, Dad, I'm going to try to recapture a time in my life when I was happy.” How could she admit that to them? She just smiled and said, “I'm going to try to catch up with a few friends, maybe do a little shopping, visit some old spots to get a few photos, and grab a late lunch at my favorite restaurant.” She changed the subject quickly and said, “Mom, breakfast looks wonderful. I'm starving!” And, she was. The drive home the night before had been so long. She had left early enough but didn't anticipate getting caught in so much traffic. Even though she left in 90-degree weather, with perfectly clear blue skies, halfway into the drive, the rains became torrential for hours, which made the miles crawl by as cars slowed their pace for safety. When she finally arrived, all she wanted was a shower and to fall into bed. Between bites, there was idle chit-chat of all the latest small-town gossip – births, deaths, marriages, divorces, and any other minor scandals that might be gossip-worthy. Callie let her Mom and Dad talk, and she nodded in all the appropriate places, and tossed in a few comments here and there. Breakfast was divine, and Callie felt as if she had gorged herself, not only on food, but also on a trip back in time itself. She loved her mother's cooking, and she felt that same sense of comfort and security from her mother's love and care in preparing such a breakfast feast that she had experienced upon waking in her old sunshine-yellow bedroom earlier that morning. Of course, her mother wouldn't let her help clear the table, but ushered her off to get ready for her day. After a languid shower, she did her hair and make-up, unpacked, and then debated on what to wear. She finally settled on navy silk walking shorts, a pale blue and white pinstriped silk shirt, navy belt, navy sandals and minimal jewelry – chic, non-threatening, classic, and comfortable – and, an outfit that had garnered many compliments, not that she was consciously planning to make a special impression, or was she? She picked up her keys and cell phone, grabbed her purse and camera bag, and headed toward the door. Her mother turned from the kitchen sink and smiled. Her dad called from the den, “Be careful. Will you be home for dinner?” Callie answered back, “I'm not sure. I'll call later this afternoon to let you know when I'll be home.” And, with that, she kissed her mother on the cheek, called out “Good-bye,” and was out the door. She got into the car, pulled out of the driveway, started down the street, and reached for her cell phone. Her hands were trembling as she began to dial the number, and then she heard the phone begin to ring. After the third ring, someone picked up the phone and she heard his voice say, “Hello …” [to be continued …] Originally published Tuesday July 15, 2003 (bw) 2003 © Copyrighted Materials - All Rights Reserved. Susan Reno-Gilliland A Southern Belle's Life # posted by Kitty : 10:52 AM
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"a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma" --- Miss Kitty, an Irish lass, a true Southern Belle; writer, photographer, artist, interior designer, animal-lover, dreamer, stargazer, cop-groupie, 70's junkie, cbc, slightly obsessive iNFp with stories to tell! ... (fascinated by forensics, human behavior, pushing all the right buttons of men she finds interesting, and seeking utterly-sweet revenge without any repercussions. ) --- "Darlin', don't ever take a Southern woman for granted!" [tm] Feeling the uncontrollable urge to shower me with gifts?!? Check out my Amazon 
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