A Letter From Home
Whether it's the sweet taste of a favorite fruit, the fresh smell of laundry from the clothesline or a particular summertime song, our senses are always calling us home
My father used to call watermelon "a letter from home." He was a native of Huntsville, Ala., who moved to Chicago when he was five. Yet every summer, he would proclaim: "I need a letter from home." For him, the sweet, juicy taste of watermelon reminded him of summers visiting his father... of sitting on his uncle's porch... of playing stick ball on the dead-end street.
My mother, on the other hand, hated watermelon. At least I think she did. I suspect she didn't want to play into the stereotype of Black folks and watermelon, so she stubbornly refused to eat it.
Her letter from home? Cucumbers in Italian dressing. Or a fresh tomato with salt that she'd eat like an apple. That was her version of a letter from her hometown of Bowling Green, Ky.
We might not call them letters from home (I actually never heard anyone but my father say that), but the phrase is so appropriate when you're trying to explain how the senses trigger memories:
Taste, like the fat blueberries I used to devour while growing up in southwest Michigan. Or the fried bologna sandwiches with mustard that was a lunchtime staple in the summer.
Smell. Does anything smell as fresh as clothes that dried in the sun on a clothesline? Or the faint smell of lilacs that gradually wraps you in a lavender-induced hug as you get closer?
Hearing.The songs. Oh, the songs of summer. Take your pick, but "Summertime" by DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince is a no-brainer. As is "Master Blaster Jammin'" by Stevie Wonder ("it's hotter than July..."). Or maybe it's the sound of a lawn mower revving up. Or the laughter of children playing in the sprinklers. The ice cream truck? Of course.
Sight, like the soaring seagulls or the unmatched sunsets on the beach in South Haven, Mich. Maybe it's the shimmer of the heat on a New York City sidewalk.
“For him, the sweet, juicy taste of watermelon reminded him of summers visiting his father... of sitting on his uncle's porch... of playing stick ball on the dead-end street.
Touch. The feel of fresh, fuzzy peaches can only be replicated in the summer. The hot, cracked plastic of a jump rope on your palms while playing Double dutch is a fond summer memory for Black girls throughout several generations.
My father's love of watermelon was legit. But his reasons for referring to it as a "letter from home" went much deeper. It went to a place that held happy memories... of a time when he had few cares in the world... when he was surrounded by family and community.