Every Saturday morning, my wife fills the kitchen with the warmth and aroma of a big country breakfast. And this morning, as I sat there drinking coffee and lost in my thoughts, the sizzle of bacon transported me back to my childhood on Grandpa’s farm.
Mornings there didn’t unfold gently—it burst awake in a symphony of sound. The rooster in the henhouse was our alarm clock, his raspy crow tearing through the stillness like a bow dragged across worn fiddle strings. I’d lie in my bed, the quilt tangled around my legs, and listen as the farm stirred to life. The rooster’s call was the first note in a symphony only that old farm could play.
Somewhere in the fields, Grandpa’s cows lowed sleepily, calling their calves for breakfast. As the morning light spread, the birds began their chorus. The mourning dove’s lonesome, melodic call—a soft, sorrowful coo-OOO-woo-woo-woo—drifted through the air like a gentle sigh on the morning breeze, seeping through the walls, soft as a prayer. Sparrows bickered in the eaves—chirp-chirp-chirp—their tiny claws skittering on the tin roof.
And always, the rooster crowed again—a scratchy encore—as if to prove he’d started the whole dang song.
Grandma’s kitchen was its own orchestra—the rattle of pots and pans, the clunk of the old General Electric refrigerator door handle opening and closing, all playing in perfect harmony. The percolator gurgled on the stove, bubbling like a creek after a spring rain, its rich aroma wrapping around the room like a warm hug. Bacon and country ham danced in the cast-iron skillet, its sizzle punctuated by the pop-pop-pop of fat meeting flame. The rich, smoky aroma filled the air, mingling with the buttery scent of biscuits browning in the oven. Eggs sizzled as she flipped them, their edges curling into golden lace, while the sharp crack of another shell breaking echoed through the kitchen. Now and then, the oven door creaked as Grandma peeked inside, the warm air rushing out with the scent of rising homemade biscuits. On the stove, a pan of red-eye gravy hissed as black coffee met the sizzling ham and bacon drippings, its rich aroma rising, ready to be ladled over hot biscuits and country ham.
The wooden floor creaked beneath Grandma’s steady footsteps as she moved between the stove and the counter, humming softly, lost in the familiar rhythm of morning.
Breakfast at Grandma’s table was a symphony of small, familiar sounds. Forks clinked against plates, biscuits split open with a soft tear, and butter knives scraped gently as golden pats melted into warm bread. The tink-tink of Grandpa stirring his coffee mixed with the crisp crunch of bacon and the quiet squish of eggs being scooped up. Now and then, the chairs creaked.
It wasn’t just breakfast—it was the sound of home.
When only crumbs remained, Grandpa took a long last sip of coffee, let out a satisfied sigh, and set his cup down with a solid thunk on the wooden table. Then, he’d push back his chair, making it scrape across the worn wooden floor. In his steady, deep voice, he would announce, “Well, time to go slop the hogs.”
I grinned. That was my favorite part of the morning.
The screen door whined as he pushed it open, then slammed shut with a familiar, rattling whap! The old rusty spring always made a twangy vibration, like a plucked banjo string. I hurried to follow him, my bare feet padding across the cool, dew-damp grass.
At the well house, he’d crank the faucet, its screech splitting the air—a sound that made me wince but never seemed to bother him. Water thundered into the bucket.
Next came my favorite part: stirring up the hog feed. Grandpa poured the water over the dry mash in a big bucket, and I worked it with his sturdy wooden paddle. The thick mixture made a deep, sloshing glop-glop sound, each turn of the paddle sending a grainy swirl through the slop.
The hogs had already caught wind of breakfast, their impatient grunts and excited snorts filling the air as they pressed against the wooden fence, eager for their meal.
Grandpa swung open the hog lot gate, and the rusty hinges gave a long, drawn-out screeeeak before settling back into place. As he secured it, the heavy iron ring on the chain clanked against a nail, giving off a solid clunk.
The hogs knew his rhythm. As Grandpa hauled the slop bucket toward the hog trough, they would stampede behind him, their snorts rising to a fevered grumble. Then, with a practiced heave, he’d sling the slop into the trough—a wet, satisfying slap as corn mush hit the metal. The hogs dove snout-first into the trough, their grunts low and grateful, tails whirling like propellers. Grandpa would chuckle, lean against the fence, and say, “Ain’t no slackers in this bunch,” as if the hogs understood his pride.
The farm was fully awake now, the sounds of the morning settling into their daily rhythm. And just like that, another day had begun on my grandparents’ farm.
The years have a way of folding memories into whispers, but the sounds of that farm still hum in my soul like a lullaby. I can close my eyes and hear it all. It lives on as a soundtrack imprinted deep within me—roosters crowing, hinges wailing, Grandma’s percolator gurgling.
But time is a thief, stealing away the things we once knew.
Sometimes, when I drive down that familiar stretch of road, I slow down as I pass where the farm used to be. There’s nothing left of it now—but as I glance out the window, for a fleeting moment, if I listen hard enough, I swear I can still hear it. Not with my ears, but with something deeper. A place where memory sings louder than time, where love never fades into silence.
I miss it all.
Those sounds were alive.
They were home.
And now?
Now, the world spins on, louder yet emptier.
But somewhere, in the quiet corners of my heart, that Kentucky dawn of the 1960s still breaks.
The rooster crows.
The screen door slams.
And for just a moment, I am small again, loved again, listening to the symphony of a life that knew how to make music out of ordinary things.