When I was a kid, there was no place in the world like my grandparents’ house in North todd. It wasn’t anything grand — just a simple farm house sitting quiet against the rolling fields — but when you stepped through the front door, it was like stepping into another world. A world where everything slowed down and the only thing that mattered was being together.
Sunday mornings were always spent at Cedar Grove Church. Grandma would sit beside us, her hands folded neatly in her lap, singing every hymn with a voice that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. After church, we’d all pile into the car and head back to her house, stomachs growling and hearts light.
Grandma never had a meal waiting — she started from scratch the minute we got home. She’d move through that little kitchen like she was dancing — frying chicken, stirring up green beans, rolling out biscuit dough without ever looking at a recipe. The house would fill with the smell of roasting meat and hot bread, a smell so rich you could almost taste it just by breathing in.
We kids would run in and out of the house, the screen door snapping behind us, while the grown-ups visited on the porch or in the living room. The air would hum with soft conversation, the kind that didn’t need to be rushed or shouted over.
And then, after we all sat down and had our fill — plates wiped clean with the last bit of biscuit, sweet tea washing it all down — something even better would happen.
The old-timers would lean back in their chairs, settle their hands on their full stomachs, and start telling stories.
Stories about the “good old days” — when the roads were dirt, when you walked to school barefoot, when families survived off the sweat of their own land. Their voices would dip and rise, weaving tales of hard work, mischief, heartbreak, and laughter. I would sit there wide-eyed, leaning in, afraid to even blink in case I missed something.
I couldn’t get enough. I longed for every word like they were treasures being handed down just for me.
Even back then, I knew deep down that I wasn’t made for the fast, busy world that was waiting outside.
There was something in those stories — something in that slow, honest life they spoke of — that called to me in a way I couldn’t explain. Like somehow, I’d been born for another time — a time when front porches were gathering places and a man’s word was as good as his bond.
I still remember it all: the smell of supper hanging in the air, the creak of the rocking chairs, the low rumble of old voices spinning memories into gold.
And even now, when the world feels too loud and too fast, I close my eyes, and I’m right back there — in that little house, in that different time, where everything that mattered fit inside four simple walls.