Cotton Fields, Nuclear Smokestacks, And What Use To Be

We set out on a quest today to find the house my husband's grandpa was born and raised in. With my husband at the wheel, his grandma sat beside him as his co-pilot. I knew we were in for an interesting drive five minutes into the trip.

There was much discussion about the best way to get to our destination that was a little over forty miles away. Grandma may have grown up in this city, but it evidently has been a while since she made this particular drive. She was directing him this way and that, and he finally gave me a look in the rear view mirror that said get the map! She had him turn around so she could "re-group" and "collect her bearings" and after retracing a few miles worth of driving, we were finally on the right highway.

Don't get me wrong- I have grown to love this woman. She is the last grandmother left for my husband and me. She spent her life working as a registered nurse in both a veteran's hospital and a mental institution, I think. Much of her work was during World War II and the years that followed. She has many stories and loves to share them all. I just have a hard time keeping up with her and her deep southern accent.

Take the cotton fields, for instance. Fields and fields of cotton. There was at least ten miles worth of talking about cotton and manufacturing and how this younger generation has probably never held real cotton in their hand. And we're not talking about cotton balls out of a plastic bag either. We're talking cotton picked fresh from the field. "Why, with all these new fangled machines, a man doesn't even have to bend over those cotton plants any more," she said. Miles and miles and fields and fields of cotton.

Then came the nuclear smokestacks. It was really quite the picture, by the way. I wanted to ask my husband to pull over so I could snap an actual photo, but, well... Grandma rarely takes a breath and I hate to interrupt. Needless to say, over a field of cotton and behind trees draped in their beautiful fall colors stood two twin reactors pouring thick columns of white smoke into a clear blue sky (which my son assures me is steam... that's why they call them cooling towers, Mom). The contrast between the created and the man-made was remarkable. Grandma wasn't talking about that, though.

She was talking about electricity and power companies and lay-offs. Jobs gained and jobs lost and money made. Kids and colleges and marriage. New homes and job transfers. I was thinking that I needed some fresh air and she was reliving parts of her life. With each new road or house we passed, she was amazed at how much had changed.

We were almost through the town to which we were headed when we realized we were actually in the town. It was that small. She definitely knew where she was at now. We turned on a road that bore her last name and after a few quick turns and some finger-pointing directing, we pulled over. We were at the childhood home of her husband. A home that she evidently new very well. And for a moment, she just sat.

Like I said, it had been a while since she had been here. A long while. Opening the door for her, my husband helped her out and as soon as her feet hit the ground, she started talking again. An old, dilapidated house began to come alive as she described swings on the front porch and a well out back. Pointing this way and that, we heard stories of grocery stores and neighbors and family members that have long since gone. Babies had been born in that house and the elderly had died there. Memories literally tripped over one another as she described life as she once knew it until finally, she said she was ready to go.

The trip home was a little more subdued. Grandma was tired and talked of taking a nap. We ate lunch, talked about my family (she remembered the little girl in our wedding and was amazed when I told her that little girl was now a new mom), and made a quick stop to visit her son. It was late afternoon when we finally walked her to her front door and as she hugged my husband good-bye she said, "Now you know where some of your folk come from." There seemed to be a peace in that this was something that was important to her. She wanted him to know, and now he knew. He left her to nap and promised to see her next weekend.

So that was our Sunday afternoon taking a literal drive down memory lane. Cotton fields, nuclear smokestacks, and what use to be.