The mimosa trees are in bloom everywhere here in Tennessee.  I associate those fuzzy pink clusters with my memories of Aunt Ora. 

She was a quilter, a good cook, and a storyteller of the early days in the family.  Her hair was white all the years I knew her and she had a quiet gentle spirit.  She and Uncle John owned a small farm in Pottsville, Arkansas, and there was a large mimosa tree in the front yard.  The tree would come into view first, as we drove toward the house on the dusty gravel road.  Her daughter lived close by with her husband, Christine and Fred.  We visited them fairly regularly as children.  That was the first farm I remember visiting, the first time to sit on a horse, the first time to fish in a pond, and the first time my sister was chased by a cow in the pasture. 

We would follow Aunt Ora to the chicken coop but wouldn’t go inside because Aunt Lucy had told us snakes like eggs, too.  Growing up in the early 1910s, their dad wouldn’t let them kill king snakes because they ate the poisonous snakes.  I was not familiar with the specifics of any snake and preferred to avoid every kind.  We walked with her to the barn to watch her milk the cows as we sat on the bales of hay.  We drank fresh milk after it was strained and chilled and lathered real butter and molasses on our biscuits.  An old wringer style washing machine sat in a corner on the back porch.  She believed in putting flowers on the family graves on Decoration Day.  She washed her dishes by hand and reminded us to stay away from the windows during thunderstorms.

Our older cousin, Linda, played the drums. One summer while we were visiting for a week, she practiced daily for what seemed like hours.  The beat of The Doors’ music drifted out of the open windows across the fields, where we played with two other girls who were staying with Fred and Christine for a while.  Our cousin didn’t have much to say to us, but I was in awe of her because she could bang those drums loudly in step with the music.

Following Uncle John’s death, Aunt Ora sold the farm and the family moved to Atkins, Arkansas, where she lived until she passed on many years ago.  When I think of her I always picture the farm and that mimosa tree.  Good memories.