I'm reading Dandelion Wine for my book club next month and while the whole thing is a coming of age/ childhood journey, the part I read yesterday included a part about front porches in their small town.

Our front porch of childhood was in a small town, but not one like in the old movies that was connected by sidewalks, ours was next to a busy road. That didn't stop its magnetic powers - both for us and our neighbors and relatives driving by in cars. They'd see us out and stop to chat - as a matter of fact, if we noticed family going by without at least a brief stop it was considered strange. And the neighbors would wander over on warm summer nights just to share the evening.

Why did we sit on our front porch? Well probably for lots of reasons, but the first being coolness. No a/c other than the breezes fanned by our Norway maples in the front yard. And secondly, entertainment. No TV to nail our souls to the indoors. Our family made games of everything and we would count cars - makes of cars. Everyone would take a model. Today I would be hard pressed to recognize anything but a VW bug!! But in those days it was American-built all the way and not that many choices. But we watched and watched the flow of cars, the dances of fireflies in the gathering dusk, the sun setting across the fields. All of this brought the activities of the day down, down, down to a peaceful level - to prepare for the night. When it was finally dark, many a night was capped off with a dish of ice cream and pretzels on the side - always the sweet/salt combo.

Nothing of significance happened on that porch ..... yet, everything did.

By a nose

About a decade ago, my classmates from the two-roomed schoolhouse that I attended Grades 1-8 had a reunion. Among other amazing aspects of that occasion was a compilation of questionnaires that one of my energetic classmates had compiled. It was fascinating to see what memories "stuck" from those years so long ago. But one memory persisted above all others - bringing potatoes along to bake on the door ledge of the round coal/wood stove that supplied our heating in the winter. The potatoes were marked with chalk with the student's initials, as all potatoes are not equal under the law, and placed strategically to catch the heat. All morning long we would smell the mouth-watering aroma of baking potatoes. It was enough to distract one from one's readin', writin' and 'rithmetic!

I mused about aromas again this week with the quick blitz of lilac season. There is simply nothing like the smell of lilacs to transport me back to childhood and if you meet another lilac lover, you sense that immediate bond of softened tone, almost misty eyes and rapturous "ahs". And its usually girls who are doing the reminiscing about the lilac scent. But the other day, a friend said it was her father's favorite flower. I was startled! I realized I had been shelving the lilacs with feminism!

Scents are so evocative. Some doctors even encourage families of comatose patients to bring in all kinds of aromatic objects to lure them back into the present. I remember one story claimed that cinnamon is what revived her husband.

Whatever the scientific basis, I celebrate the nose and all its attendant nostalgic baggage!

the song

Last evening's Prairie Home Companion originated from Goshen College and although I missed a lot of the show I did hear the choir singing some achingly lovely old hymns in four-part harmony.

Now that I miss! There is a lot of about my earlier church experience that I have diverged from, but the beauty of those old hymns like "Abide with Me" is stunning, years later.

"Abide with me
Fast falls the eventide
The darkness deepens,
Lord, with me abide."

The simple, soft merge of alto, soprano, tenor and bass in this almost lullaby overwhelmed me last evening with it's quiet glory.

But growing up, we took both the words and the singing for granted. Now, mind you, the average congregation didn't sound like that choir last night, but still, the music was there. And so was the poetry of the words. And so was the steadfast faith.

And still after all these years, it abides.

spring treat

Rhubarb Pie

browned crust
that melts
in your mouth,

oozing thickened fruit
that seesaws
between sweet and tart,

harbinger
of summer's bounty
to come

pale pink
delicate
delight.

grocery cashier,
"what is this?"
And
"what do you
do with it?"

Bake,
savor,
swoon
with
pleasure.