Sharon Bayless

Let me introduce you to a few good memories of a time when life was simple, the well water was cold, and the watermelons the sweetest.

My parents and most of their families were born and raised in the little Texas town of Saltillo — about two hours northeast of Dallas, but a lifetime away from the hustle and bustle of the ‘Big D.’

My parents, like most of their siblings and families moved away from Saltillo after graduation to pursue the hopes and dreams of adulthood, to embark on the adventures that would become the stories of their lives. But, alas, going home is probably the best part of growing up… The familiar places and faces, the food and watching their children grow up in the same pastures and gardens they did.

As a child, I recall wonderful memories of our parents loading me and my three younger brothers into the station wagon (no air conditioning) and heading to Saltillo. After the hugs and hellos from all the other visiting relatives, us kids, along with whatever cousins happened to be visiting, were usually sent right out to the garden.

We picked peas, beans, tomatoes, peppers, onions, anything they could find seeds for, usually trading with their neighbors so everyone would be assured an ample yield. If we were lucky, we got to sit on the back fender of Papaw’s tractor while he disked or plowed the garden.

I remember sitting on that big old Ford tractor and watching in fascination as the dirt turned literally under my feet. We ran around barefooted; that black dirt would get into our shoes and mostly wouldn’t wash out so our mothers would not let us mess up our shoes — likely the only pair we owned at the time, but we didn’t mind one bit.

After we had finished picking, Grandma would have homemade biscuits, leftover from breakfast slathered in butter and honey and we ate like we hadn’t eaten in days. Then it was off to the front porch to shell peas, snap beans, shuck corn or peel potatoes for supper.

There was always a lot of gossip on the front porch, where we learned all about the relatives that didn’t happen to be there that weekend. Grandma would go catch a chicken for supper and along with all the fresh vegetables we thought we were eating like kings.

After dinner, we went off to the ditches on the side of the road to gather wild dewberries. We ate them as fast as we picked them but usually managed to bring enough back for Grandma to make dewberry cobbler.

When it got dark, old homemade quilts were thrown on the floor, where we said our goodnights and slept like babies with only a rickety old fan to cool the room. Many a night spent on the floors of our Grandparents’ house.

The older I get, the more I treasure that piece of my childhood. They taught me the meaning of family, of getting along, of sharing any abundance I have with others and a deep love of gardening. Every time I bite into a sweet watermelon, I am reminded of those innocent times — innocent because we didn’t realize then that those gardens were survival in many ways to our parents and grandparents and rich in an education that no one gets in a classroom.