Day 17: I’m grateful for memory. Sometimes I make the most vivid connections with an aroma or a feeling halfway around the world that serves as a strong reminder of my childhood. For example: I tried a kind of tea called mate’ de coca recently in my travels. The hostess at the hotel helped me prepare it—she dropped a small handful of loose leaves into my cup of hot water and covered it with a saucer. Then she instructed me to let it steep for five minutes before drinking.
When I raised the cup to my lips, the flavor took me back to summer afternoons on the porch, sweet Mom or Granny Bullard in the rocking chair and me in the floor, shelling peas from Grandmother McCoy’s garden, or the farmer’s market, or a basket that a kind neighbor brought to us because they knew how much that husky little boy of Ed Bullard’s loved ‘em. We’d hull bushel after bushel, causing sore, loose fingernails and completely staining them that purple color I associated with the flavors of the feasts on Sundays after church. That fleshy, damp vegetable smell from that cup went quickly from mouth to heart, reminding me of chats, laughter and lessons with some of the most important women in my life. Two of those angels are gone, but I’m grateful for the memories they left for me to enjoy no matter where I am. Thank you, Lord, for your blessings on me.