Sarah Walker Gorrell, Author

  The combination of fall and the Thanksgiving Holiday brings a flood of memories. From my front porch, I sit and look at the old homeplace otherwise known as "Granny's house." It sits, quiet and dark, with old vines that have begun to cover the porch.  The leaves that drift from the trees have begun to carpet the yard and make the driveway disappear. The wild lemon tree with fuzzy lemons and long, sharp thorns that once stood at the end of the front walk has long been gone. The lemons were inedible, the thorns were sharp, and the tree was ugly, but for some reason, it was special to me. Thanksgiving, at Granny's house, was a special time with a table full of food and lots of family. Of course, that wasn't much different than any Sunday meal. Granny's house was the family gathering spot for her children, grandchildren, and extended family. My memories are special about those days of long ago. As the years passed, grandchildren grew up and married, and families...

  The house I live in now is on the land I love. It’s where I spent my summers growing up—at Granny’s house, about four miles from the small town of Taylorsville, in the country. Back then, the road in front of Granny’s house wasn’t paved. After it rained, cars couldn’t get through the mud. Once the mud dried, only vehicles with high clearance could navigate the deep ruts. Now, the road is paved and even has a center line down the middle. Cars fly by as if it’s a race track!                                                       Image by Aubrey Odom on Unsplash     Down the road from Granny’s house is Okahay (Cohay) Creek. The concrete bridge that now crosses it replaced the boards that rattled and could be heard for miles when a car crossed the creek. When Granny heard the rattling of the old bridge, she would send whatever grandchild...