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As I sit here at the computer this morning, a snowplow goes by out in the street. I hear it rumble past like a slow-moving freight train, clearing the winding, country road on which I live of the six inches of fresh snow that fell last night.
The deep-throated sound of steel scraping tar and snow immediately transports me back fifty years in time.
Suddenly, I am five years old and snuggled up under a thick, sweet-smelling quilt in a bed at my grandmother's house.
It is the morning after a snowfall, and a bright, new sun is blazing in from the huge windows that face the street, filling the room with warm, yellow, comfortable brilliance.
My grandmother is sitting on the edge of the bed smiling down at me. Her smile is as bright as the morning sun as she says, "You look as snug as a bug in a rug." (One of her favorite expressions.)
I tell her that I am, and I shyly ask if she would sing me a song.
She nods and softly asks, "Any requests?"
I think for a moment and reply, "Barnacle Bill."
She reaches over, tousles my hair playfully, and begins to sing.
The first four lines she sings in falsetto, playing the part of the fair, young maiden. The last four lines she sings in as low a voice as she can produce, trying to be a gruff sailorman.
I can still remember some of the words -
"Who's that knocking at my door?
Who's that knocking at my door?
Who's that knocking at my door?"
Cried the fair young maiden.
"It's only me from over the sea."
Cried Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
"I've come to take you away with me."
Cried Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
I find myself smiling now as I sit here at this computer and remember this treasure. It was warm and snug under that quilt as Gram sang. I remember feeling so happy and so safe and secure.
And then, as she finished her performance, the snowplow rumbled past the window.
I miss my grandma.
