The Country Philosopher

     I remember my summer visits, to my Nanny and Grammy's beach house, as a young child.  The smell of salt in the air, fresh tilled garden soil, and wonderful aroma's coming from a tiny kitchen bring back so many memories my eyes begin to tear up and a smile is uncontrollably present upon my face.  Yes, smells can certainly transport you back to in time to far away places, but what of a familiar sound?  I can sit and close my eyes and hear the sounds of Grammy's fingers move across the keys of his old cast iron typewriter.  Click, click, clack.  I recall sneaking around that old beach house while Nanny warned my siblings and myself to be quite while Grammy was working. Sometimes we would be banished from the house until we heard that old bell being rung, a sure signal we had best start moving down the beach at a rapid pace because dinner was ready.  Oh how excited I would be knowing just as soon as that delicious dinner Nanny placed on the table had been consumed we would all sit around to listen to the new article Grammy had written for his weekly column in the Enterprise.  I adored listening to Grammy read.  I wanted so badly to be able to write as he did. 

     I may never have that gift for capturing an audience and transporting them to another realm but I can share the works of Amos Arthur Holmes with you all.  My beautiful Nanny, aka Joloyce Frances Holmes, recently gave me a large box of Grammys works.  I would be very pleased to share a smile with you.

                                                                                  Jill A. Coleman

                                                                                     Grandaughter