Genealogical Memories

As the Gilbert & Nora Smith Family Reunion in Tucson comes to a close, I think that perhaps my penchant for writing stories comes from my grandfather. Here's an excerpt from one of his stories:

Memories of childhood center for me in the larger town of Easton. The stable, the family horse and buggy. Father was also a horse-trading parson. The stable, most enchanting of all places. I drew horses on scraps of paper, interminably sketching that subtle line that runs from the ears to the tail, over the parapet of intervening stalls. I remember riding with Father on preaching expeditions to what then seems far distant villages, waving sad good-byes to Mother as she stood, beautiful, like an angel in the lane. It broke me up to leave her for an over-night journey with Father. But it was fun with Father too. I remember how eagerly I contested with him, on the return trip, to see which would be the first to lay eyes upon the Easton standpipe.

I remember watching in summer the terrifying clouds blowing up a “gust,” old Mr. Gelon across the way, standing in his shirt sleeves, with his red beard blowing, welcoming the coming storm as relief from sultry afternoons; the torrential rains which sometimes followed, flooding the gutters on Railroad Avenue, filling the dirt street with rivulets through which the horses splashed; the joyful aftermath of tramping with bare feet in the dammed up rainwater along the side of the road until there were vast areas of soft black mud to “sqush” in and out between the toes; revelling in winter in the deep moist snow that hung thick on peach, poplar, and maple; watching rich Miss Covey, daughter of the livery man, jingle furiously by in her black slay behind high-checked black horses; in the dreamy autumn, lying in the sheltered angle of the front porch, out of the wind, watching the tossing tops of the poplars, their leaves turned up, and catching the broken sound of the voices of people passing, distorted voices in the noisy breeze; just dreaming, and wondering at the mystery of consciousness, and why it was that I was I.