Yesterday, as I drove back from Oklahoma, I heard Frank Sinatra sing, The House I Live In. It’s a stirring song about America and many of the things that are right about our country. The song seemed particularly appropriate because I had just driven through some beautiful countryside and was thinking about the beauty of springtime in the hills and the people who once lived there.
Dogwoods ran riot through the woods. They stood out like snow banks among the other trees. Many spring-fed creeks criss-crossed the countryside. 
My sister-in-law and I drove past a bit of history. My grandfather, Levi Latty, once owned a store and a house across the road. We drove down that road yesterday. The house is gone now, but the cellar still survives. The remains of the store rise from among trees and grass. 
I was startled to see it was actually a small building. I remember being in it as a child and it seemed awfully big, dark, and exciting. The candy counter and the bright-colored sweets with the scales my grandfather used to measure a penny’s worth, the tiny brown candy sacks, were a wonder to me. The store had bolts of cloth on high shelves, cards of buttons, cans of food, and in the back, saddles and bridles and the heady smell of leather.
I thought of the people such as my grandparents and my parents who had lived, laughed, loved, raised their families, worked hard, believed in God and freedom, and I was grateful.
The howdy and the handshake, the air of feeling free, and the right to speak your mind out; that’s America to me.
Speak Your Mind