Elizabeth Straessle was born September 23rd, 1910, and is still living and creating precious memories for her family.
by Michael Straessle
There are a number of places I like to visit. Some bring a sense of belonging. Some are like a warm summer breeze. There is one place, however, that I like to frequent again and again. That place is peace. Is it possible, you say? Is there really a place called peace? Emphatically, I would say, "Yes!" This place actually has a geographical location.
Three-hundred yards, or so, off the main highway, west of Little Rock, Arkansas, lies a piece of ground. Towering pine trees, ominous oaks and three structures define a clearing that forms a nice, neat circle at the foot of Chenal Mountain. The first of these structures is a building about fifteen feet square. One half of this building was once the sanctuary for many different varieties of ferns and flowers. Now, though, the windows made of visquene plastic are rotted from the heat of summers gone by. The flowers that are now there are a reminder of the time and energy that was put into this part of the structure. The other half of the building, wrapped in a black shroud of insulation board and wood strips, was the perfect place to store garden vegetables and canned goods. The smell of minerals from the well, which was also protected by this part of the building, filled the room. While standing in the door, and looking off to the left, you can’t help but notice the second of the three structures that form a nice obtuse triangle around the circular clearing. A path made of flat, slate rock leads from where you stand in the well-house, meanders about the circle and comes to a structure that can be best described as the remains of a chicken yard.
A collection of wild hedges form an archway over a narrow bridge made of stone and earth, which span a small ditch leading you to the entrance of the chicken yard. As you enter this area you can see old, but definite signs that assure you this was certainly the home of chickens. Standing in the back of this area was a tiny, wooden structure with a ramp in the doorway, and a small window in the side which, over the years, was the gathering place of many eggs that made their way to the breakfast table, and into many pies and cakes. Just being there brings an awesome peace. Standing back in the doorway of the well house and looking in the opposite direction of the chicken yard is a double car garage with cypress siding on two sides, and the other two sides open. Connected to the garage by a short, covered sidewalk, is a quaint, little white house. A small, covered porch shadows the entrance to a world of other delights that help create, and complete, the smell of peace.
Once a year, and oh, how I wish it were more often, the gathering of the Straessle clan occurs at this place called ‘peace’. We laugh, share stories, heartaches, struggles, child-raising experiences, and without fail, peace. All of us know the smell of the cypress siding, the old well house, the pines and the oaks. The aroma that fills the air also fills our hearts. We all have different experiences of the same peace. Childhood experiences are usually the topic of discussion.
Running as hard, and as fast as I could, dodging the grapevines and the tomato plants, trying to get away from my little brother, who was chasing me with all he had in him. Rolling to the ground in laughter, as a little boy wrestling with his brother, in the softest grass in which you could play, interrupted only by the voice that will stay with me forever, granny, calling us to supper. Entering the house, and after cleaning up, we sat at the table, anticipating the meal that filled every room with such an exciting aroma! We were never disappointed. To a little grandson, there wasn’t a better dish of fried squirrel and rabbit, with mashed potatoes, in the world! It was like a holiday everyday.
Sitting around the Christmas tree, listening to a tape of an uncle in Vietnam. Eyes glued to the tape player as if Uncle Ray, himself, were seated on it, talking to us. Comforting arms drawing us in, assuring us that we would see him again soon. Stories that could only be told from the voice of experience filled our imaginations as all six of us tried to sleep in the same room. Sleep would always come; peaceful sleep. I never had a nightmare in this somewhat secluded clearing off the main highway.
Now, some three decades later, the trees, the garage, the well house, and the chicken coop, all speak to me in a way that nothing, or no one else can. The words are silent, though penetrating. They are picturesque, beautiful, and peaceful. There isn’t a problem I face that cannot be conquered by the peace this place brings. The very smell in the air, and it’s always there, calms my spirit. I am guilty of wanting to stay in that place. I want to build my own little house close to granny’s, and keep that peace around me all the time. What better way to end each trying day than to come home to such a peace?
But, alas, it belongs to granny, who is now ninety-two years of age and still has that look of peace on her face. Oh, to be like that! To experience that!
Does peace have a smell? You bet it does! It smells like cypress siding, an old well house and a chicken coop. It smells like tall pine trees and towering oaks. It smells like soft grass and grapevines. It smells like granny’s house.
Copyright 2002 Michael Straessle
Published U.S. Legacies February 2003
- Log in to post comments