Memories

What makes a writer an author? My dear 92-year-old mother, who is now in a nursing home, was never published but she did write in her own way. Does this make her an author? Maybe not but it does make her a writer in my mind. I was recently cleaning out her house and found this little piece that she wrote about her childhood days as I was going through some of her things. I think I'll make her a published author by publishing it here in my blog. Congrats, Mama! You finally made it to the published author status!

My Old Tree
By Augustine Robinson Kennon

If this old cypress tree could talk it would have some happy tales to tell.
And a few sad ones too.

This old tree grows on the bank of the Ouachita River about five miles up the river from a little town called Harrisonburg, Louisiana where I was born.

This old tree was my fortress and my refuge. A good place to while the day away under its roots. A good place for me and my sister Ethyl to play house with our dolls.

I would sit on the roots of this old tree and read a book in the early morning hours while waiting for the school boat that carried me to school. Sitting on its roots watching my Mama washing our clothes with her tub and wash board and the water we carried from the river. Sitting on its roots watching my Papa run his trot lines in the river.

But it stands there proudly now all alone. With no one to play around its roots or to call it home. But Jesus must have been watching over it all these long years. It still stands there proudly on the banks of the Ouachita River.

A place I once called home with my Papa, Mama, three brothers and three sisters.