After my father died, I lived for a while with my maternal grandparents -- the Colemans. They taught me a lot there on the family farm. Grandpa told me about Model-Ts & rumble seats. Grandma taught me the finer points of Rummy, Scrabble & the crosswords. I sure miss them. I write the following in dedication: I'm told that heaven's a wonderful place. There must be a porch there where Grandpa sits and sips hot coffee he has poured into a saucer. Daybreak is his few minutes of quiet before he rides a Ford tractor until nightfall. There must be cane poles and "bobbers" bouncing in the creek and children in rolled-up jeans wading in their quest for "crawdads." There must be "hollers" & ridges there and hounds to run them in quest for squirrels, rabbits and "coons." There must be cows to milk & horses to ride. There must be hogs & chickens and barbed wire to scratch us when we run from the bull. There must be services in a one-room church. There must be lessons in a one-room school. Don't you think it's appropriate that they share the same building? There must be bees there. The stings we get from being too close when Uncle Bob robs them of their gold is well worth the taste of honey dripping on a biscuit. There must be the Sunday smell of fried chicken there and gravy to smother the potatoes. There must be corn bread & DON'T FORGET the pinto beans! There must be a crank to turn to make homemade ice cream. There must be watermelon seeds to spit in contest with Grandpa's chew. There must be Mail Pouch barns there and rain that falls on their tin roofs in the afternoons of summer. There must be soft feather beds there covered with Grandma's quilts, pieced together with comfort & warmth -- the exact ingredients they yield. There must be the intermittent light of fireflies there. Flashbulbs taking pictures of children & young lovers who chase the "lightning bugs" across a nocturnal meadow in amazement & anticipation. There must be an orchestra there and a band leader able to blend the nocturnal sounds -- the constant of crickets with the solo of a whippoorwill. The symphony ends with the rooster waking grandma. Grandpa's alarm clock is sometimes a nudge But more often the smell of bacon & coffee. And the cycle starts again. Thanks for listening and as my Grandma Coleman used to say, "Ya'll Come!" Sincerely, Mike Peters npeters102@aol.com