Spider Lilies, Porch Swings and the Fragrance of Memories

While I’d much rather see what a true photographer could do with this photo subject, I’m more than delighted to be around the real thing. Here are a couple of pictures, taken the other day in Dad’s back yard, of Spider Lilies which, when I was a youngling, were one of my favorite flowers. I tended to eschew simpler flowers, such as buttercups, daisies and tulips, in favor of those with more visually complex structures, such as hyacinths, snapdragons, and irises. Of course, the former were much easier to draw with my crayons, but I found the latter more fascinating.

Looking at these blooms, I was carried back to Autumns of earlier years and recollections of the great delight I felt when I arrived home from school and saw that the Spider Lilies had begun making an appearance. There was not much more to the memory except that brief moment of getting out of the car and running across the yard to study their structures and colors more closely.

It amazes me how easily floods of memories can be released by simple sights, sounds or fragrances. One of my former pastors preached a fantastic sermon in which he spoke of the power of music to carry us to a completely different time and place (“Bravo!” to David Bisgrove). I have been experiencing countless such “displacements” as I work on settling back into life in The South. One such experience was so powerful and unexpected I almost sat down, rather abruptly, on the garage floor. In fact, it was such a vivid recollection, I would have sworn I literally “saw” the events taking place.

The day was rather hot and I was unpacking boxes in the carport (although, down here we call it a garage). After a few moments, I was aware of a fragrance I could not define. It was a bit musty, but not unpleasant. It carried me back to my grandmothers’ houses in Grenada, Mississippi, and beyond. I seemed to see myself swinging on a vine over a cold, clear stream before dropping with a splash and a shout and swimming back to the bank, my big toe wrapped with a torn strip of cloth to cover a cut and my pants held up by a rope tied around my waist…

Wait.

I think I somehow purloined memories belonging to Tom Sawyer. I’d probably better head back to the grandmothers’ houses. I know my way around there.

My parents had grown up as next-door neighbors and my grandmothers, “Dear” and “Marmee,” continued to live next to each other in the same houses where Mom and Dad were reared.

When our family visited them in the summers, my siblings (Frosty and Bob), my cousin (Matt) and I had to find ways to entertain ourselves. Being stouthearted explorers who braved the recesses of the crawlspace under Dear’s house was one way, while another was grabbing knives from the kitchen and traipsing down the block to “The Initial Tree” in front of the local elementary school, where we’d climb a few branches and attempt to carve our initials on the trunk. It was tough work, considering we had to content ourselves with butter knives.

Swinging on the front porch swing was another favorite pastime. Dear’s house was set up off the ground by what had to be a distance of at least six feet. Walking along its side, I was impressed by the height of the porch – it was higher than the top of my head and had no railing. If I were reckless enough to stand at the edge of the porch and look down, I would instantly be struck by a compelling urge to swoon over the perilous height. A fall from such a distance would surely spell doom to anyone who suffered such a fate. Why Dear would choose to put herself in jeopardy by living at such a dizzying altitude, I could not fathom.

The stoop leading up to the porch was flanked by two concrete “railings” wide enough for us to use as launching platforms when we decided to dare each other to jump to the ground below, and the porch itself was deep enough to accommodate a swing and some chairs. The four of us would climb into the swing and set ourselves in motion. Usually, one of us had to get the swing started by giving a really hard push and then jumping on after we were in motion because none of us had legs long enough to reach the floor once we were seated. (I was rarely chosen to be the Starter, by the way, because I could not satisfactorily deal with the combined weight of the other three, nor was I very skilled at jumping on the swing after it was moving).

Sometimes, we swung so high it appeared to me that we were going to hit the porch ceiling. At the apex of our back-swing, I would look down to see how far above the floor we were. It always consoled me that I was not alone, as we were swinging far too high for my personal comfort. Adding to the sense of peril was that, as we hit this same high point, we could also see under and behind the swing to the edge of the porch and the sidewalk below it. I was convinced that if the chains should snap as we were on that backward arc, we would be flung clear across the street and would perish, face down on the sidewalk, to be pitied by passersby and mourned by our families.

But, such is the power of familial connections that, because I was with my brother, sister and cousin, I was able to endure the overwhelming thrill of the front porch swing.

Years later, when my parents and I drove past the houses during a short detour from a trip to Memphis, I was astounded to see that both houses seemed to have shrunk. Dear’s must have sunk by at least three feet, as the front porch would barely be waist-high to me, now. I was convinced all the dangers I had faced during those daring childhood times were diminished in proportion as well and, while I hated to admit it, the realization left me with an odd feeling of loss. I suppose I was afraid that, if the dangers I feared as a child proved to be so insignificant, then the adventures that thrilled me then were equally ludicrous, and were to be despised more than cherished.

All of these thoughts, and more, flashed through my mind in an instant as I stood in the garage, unpacking dinnerware. Memories of adventures I never had, but imagined that I should have had, as well as many that I actually did experience overwhelmed me for a few minutes just because of the merest whiff of a fragrance I had not encountered in decades. And all those diminished fears and lost adventures were back – in full force, in all their glory – and I was, once again, dizzy with glee and apprehension as Frosty, Bob, Matt and I sailed over the top of the world in the swing on my grandmother’s front porch.