I grew up in Anderson Indiana, at least until about the age of ten. We used to visit my great-grandparent's farm in Alexandria, also known as Small Town USA. My mom drove my sister and I to the farm in our beat up metallic blue station wagon. As we drove, a cloud of dust flew up behind us and enveloped our car when we eventually stopped. The sound of pebbles popped beneath our tires as we made our way down that familiar dirt road in the summer months of 1952.

Upon arrival at the farm, I gave my great-grandparent's a huge hug and kiss. My great-grandma knew exactly what I wanted to do and always motioned for me to run along. I dashed to her bedroom, where I searched through her closet for one of her dresses. I selected my favorite, a long green satin gown with nearly a hundred buttons down the back. Once my slender body was fully draped in that dress, I sat at her vanity and carefully selected a long strand of pearls, maybe even a short one too. While I admired myself in the aging mirror, I applied a little rouge, lipstick and perfume. She had a cedar chest in her room. The strong scent made my body tingle all the way to my toes. As I rummaged through its precious contents, I could imagine an earlier time when she was a young girl.

Every once in awhile my aunts played hooky from school and joined my mom and I on the farm. We were always happy to see them whether they were jumping out of one of their boyfriend's cars or walking down the dirt road. The days that I was outside and saw them walking down the road, I ran full boar to meet them, they were my heroes. Sometimes we made lemonade, took a picnic basket outside and sat on a red and white checkered blanket in the front yard. The three girls used to sit and talk about their boyfriends and gossip about who did what at the last party. I was too young to appreciate the conversation, however I knew I wasn't supposed to be hearing that stuff, but I listened anyway.

During the summer months the sun was so warm and inviting, I basked in its warmth; the humidity was so dense the sweat it created was like a second layer of skin. My ears relished the sound of the corn fields rustling in the breeze and the ubiquitous song of the locust. The scent of the country, so fresh, was a delight for my senses; except when I was downwind from the cows.

Just beyond the kitchen door stood their decaying barn. You could actually see the brick-red paint peeling from its exterior walls. Stashed in the barn's storage area was a wooden rocking horse I enjoyed playing on. When I was done playing on the rocking horse I ran for my great-grandfather's rusted tractor-trailer just beyond the barn. He hastily rushed me away from it for fear I might hurt myself. I think he felt guilty because he used to grab two soft and chewy oatmeal cookies with raspberry filling in the middle from the kitchen but warned me against telling my grandma.

Even today, the sights, sounds and aromas of that beloved farm are alive in my thoughts. What I miss most of all are my great-grandparents loving arms. My memories are a precious treasure to me; the innocence of Small Town USA has long been forgotten.

Learn more about this author, Angie SanFilippo.
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