Hidden Corners of History Precious Memories of Springtime

Precious Memories of Springtime

Jarrod E. Stephens

Sitting on a hard pew in our church, I recall as a child hearing the song “Precious Memories.” One verse says, “And old home scenes, of my childhood, precious sacred scenes unfold.” I never really gave it a thought at the time because I figured every kid lived on a farm like I did and would never grow to miss the labors of the field and the simple country life. Boy was I wrong!

While I’m not old, I am not a child either and I have seen such a massive shift in our kids today that I’m not sure what type of memories they’ll have to cherish. Our fast-paced, gotta get an update, post this, post that, go here, go there life is more of a rat race than a journey. Sadly, it’s the kids who are affected the most.

We never grew up on a big farm, but it was big enough to keep us busy but also provide us with an ever-evolving playground. By this time in the month of March, we’d already have our tobacco beds gassed, and it wouldn’t be long until we’d seed them. Lettuce in the lettuce bed would be brilliant green, and the garden would be plowed. My brother and I built a million miles of roads in the furrows for our Matchbox cars. Clods would be blasted apart with the Blackcat firecrackers that our dad would bring to us when he came home from work. I can still smell the dirt and the firecrackers.

The rich green winter wheat cover crop would grow by leaps and bounds on the tobacco fields where it would be plowed under to provide compost in the soil. Before dad would mow it and then plow it under my siblings and me would make paths through it and create rooms. The cool wheat felt so neat under my feet as I walked through it. We enjoyed it as much as we could because we knew that it would not be long before we’d come home and it would be plowed under. We lost one play place, but I then had more areas to make roads for my cars.

The creeks were generally still too cold to play in, but the arrival of spring revived our bicycling fun. While our bikes saw limited action during the winter, in spring we’d literally ride the wheels off them. Dad would patch up our old tire tubes, and we’d pop wheelies and ramp from plywood launch pads until we had another flat that dad would repair.

Late evenings would be serenaded by the peeper frogs in a nearby waterhole. Their sound was almost deafening as you approached, but they’d come to a stop once they sensed we were near. Our fishing poles would also get their first workouts of the year as we’ go to our small pond and catch the same fish that we’ caught and released for the past ten years. They’d all have sore lips by the end of spring.

Church was less than a mile from our home, so we’d frequently walk to services. Sometimes I’d fill my pockets with flint that I’d find in the gravel road. Pitching the rocks up into the air and hitting them with a stick was also one of my favorite things to do. We never seemed to notice that we did the same things over and over again because the world around us changed so much as spring bloomed. Every time you walked the roads or along the hillsides your view was different. It was the best of times.

Most of the farms where my friends and family lived have since been sold and resold. The gardens and tobacco fields are now front yards. Thankfully I do have fond memories as many of you do about the precious memories that can be created while living in the country.

Time has not sat still and now I wonder what my own kids will remember from their childhood. Will they have precious memories of the farm life that they’ve had the opportunity to enjoy, or will the digital distractions and temporary trinkets be what they remember? My guess is that they too will stop and one day reflect on hearing that old song “Precious Memories” and hopefully, yes hopefully they see old home scenes of their childhood and think of them as sacred.