Is it a dream, or perhaps true-life commemoration that haunts my memory? An enchanting summer evening where I am poised on Grandmother’s porch. Settled comfortably on the stoop—two skinny legs and dirty, bare feet poke from beneath my dress. In the yard, celebration swells in the air. Crickets, frogs, and other night creatures croon in harmonious serenade.

Darkness overtakes the cloudless sky. Lightning bugs rise from the ground to join in spirited dance. Across the distance a screech owl trills. At the edge of the woods, a whippoorwill calls for his mate. Behind a silhouette of oaks in the side yard, a graceful moon hangs brilliant in a Southern night sky.

On the porch’s far side, Grandmother, Granddaddy, Mother, and Daddy yarn another tale. A step beneath me, Sister curls into a ball, attempting to catch a lurking frog.

It’s the breath of honeysuckle that tickles my nose—honeysuckle and fresh apple pie…

Ah, memories––they breathe life into a weary soul. Precious memories of life in the South give rise to countless stories that flow through the pen of a Southern author.