When I was a child, I heard the phrase “down home” all the time and never appreciated what it meant. My parents used it when we went to visit my grandparents.

“We’re getting up early in the morning to go down home,” Dad would say. Then he’d head out to the garage to check the oil and water levels in the car and clean the windshield until it sparkled.

My mom, busy packing, would nod and continue filling suitcases. A smile would spread across her face as she tucked in underwear and pajamas. For the rest of the evening she was a different Mom. Not the harried homemaker or frantic Mom I lived with, but a younger more spirited version.

Their terminology still confused me, because I was home. We weren’t down home, or up home. Just home.

When I was older, I realized the place they referred to was where they grew up – their roots. The mere thought of returning energized them, even if only for a weekend.

But, the down part of down home still lacked significance. I finally decided it referred to a direction. Because my grandparents lived south of us, it made sense that down home meant in a southerly direction.

Now that I’m grown, I refer to my grandparents’ small town as down home – even though I’ve never lived there for more than a few weeks at a time. It was a place where I grew and learned and became the person I am today. The deep-down meaning of down home wasn’t clear until a few years ago.

It was a sunny May afternoon – a picture-book kind of day where you expect to see butterflies weaving their way across flower-sprinkled meadows or cows munching grass on verdant hillsides. We had gathered to lay my grandmother to rest – in the same cemetery where, years earlier, we had buried my grandfather. I realized I was standing in almost the same spot where my grandmother had brought me as a child to decorate her parents’ graves on Sundays after service. The emotions I had been holding back flooded to the surface. It was then I understood.

Down home wasn’t a place. It was a feeling. It was Saturday afternoons visiting King’s store for a cold pop, where I’d plunge my hand into a huge chest filled with ice water. I’d fish around until I pulled up a frosty bottle filled with Grape Nehi, Dr Pepper or Coca-Cola. Then Mr. King wrote up the sale in a big, black ledger. Later in the week, when Grandpa brought home his paycheck, Grandma would stop by and settle up with Mrs. King while they gossiped about the latest small town scandal.

It was sitting on the front porch on a muggy summer evening listening to June bugs dive into the screen door or lying on blankets wishing on stars. Sometimes they raced across the sky leaving me to feel small and insignificant.

It was visiting the graves of relatives and watching Grandma bow her head in prayer. She would pull a hanky from her purse, dab her eyes and motion for us kids to go sit in the car. We’d watch as the wind billowed the skirt of her Sunday dress. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she was talking to her Mama and Daddy – a private conversation meant only for them. The love I saw in her eyes when she returned to the car was so overpowering it made me feel warm and safe inside.

Down home was an era. It was going to bed at night without locking the doors and waking to the smell of strong coffee and bacon frying. There were enough hours in the day to bake bread, put up vegetables fresh from the garden and still toss a line down at the creek. It was swinging on the rickety tree swing and waving at cars as they slowed on the gravel road.

Time stood still. There were no cell phones and no rushing from one frenzied activity to another. We played kickball in the road, used the railroad track as a balance beam and gorged ourselves on popcorn and candy in the balcony of the Gem Theatre. Afterward, we still had change for a fountain drink at the drugstore, and we could walk home after dark without fear.

My trips down home are less frequent now, usually a quick stop on the way to other destinations. I seize the opportunity to place flowers at the graves of loved ones, recall fond memories and mourn. But, not before driving by the old home place for another look around and one more opportunity to take a deep breath in oh-so-familiar air.

My visits are rare, but my mind wanders down home often. I long for my grandma’s plum jelly spread thick and gooey on a freshly baked biscuit. What I wouldn’t give to wake one more morning in the creaky iron bed with Grandma’s quilt pulled snuggly under my chin and listen as she and Grandpa began their day with steaming mugs of coffee. If I could feel her gentle hand on my cheek just one more time, I would treasure the touch forever.

It occurred to me the other day that down home is now my home – a place where my child formed her roots. A place that she and her children will return – hopefully often. Now it’s up to me to create the memories, the Sunday afternoons and maybe even the plum jelly, so they too will have a haven where they can get away from their hectic activities; where they can feel comfortable and safe and loved.

Down home is a place forever etched in my heart.

There are worse things than spending a weekend with in-laws – like spending the weekend with all the in-laws. Especially since I chose the reunion location, and it turned out to be only a little higher-classed than the Bates Motel from Psycho. In our cabin we found holes in the wooden floor big enough for critters to crawl through and a toilet wobblier than the town drunk.

I knew better than to trust an advertisement in the newspaper, but good judgment is not necessarily my strong suit. Rustic charm, it turns out, means “this place is falling down.” Family-style dining means “you get what we fix, whether you like it or not, because the closest restaurant is twenty miles away.” Homey atmosphere is code for “we treat you like family, so shut up and quit complaining.”

The first night at dinner, my ears perked up when I heard rumblings about a float trip. What float trip? I certainly didn’t plan an outing that involved canoes and bathing suits. Leave it to my husband’s sisters – those wicked girls with slender thighs – to pounce on the idea of doing something athletic. What happened to lazing around the resort playing croquet, lounging in a chaise reading a good book, or heaven forbid, catching up on family gossip?

The next morning, on the bus ride to the put-in point, I concentrated on chewing my nails. Maybe I should have updated my will before the trip.

My daughter – bless her family-loving heart –said, “Don’t worry, Mom. It’ll be okay.”

I made my mind up right then that when I got home, if I got home, the sisters-in-law were out of the will. No way would they inherit my belongings – especially if they were responsible for getting me drowned.

The bus jolted to a stop and everyone clambered out – everyone except the smart sister-in-law. She stayed at the resort with a good book and a bottle of SPF45. Now why couldn’t I be like her? No, I have to take the challenge, any challenge, even if I’m out of my league. It’s not that I can’t swim. I’m a great swimmer in a pool, if I can see the bottom and there aren’t “things” that can slither past my legs.

To my right, my brother-in-law settled a cooler in his canoe and topped it with his two young children. They were nestled snug in their life vests, grinning. They were actually excited about our adventure. Hey, they weren’t scared, so why was I? The river looked safe. The stream was narrow, clear, and barely a foot deep. I could see the bottom, so all was well.

My daughter and I had previously had a bad experience in a canoe with my husband, so suffice it to say, we chose to paddle together and left him to single-handedly pilot his canoe. Let’s just say we weren’t impressed with his boating skills. She assured me she was up to the task. Since I had shelled out money every year for summer camp, I put my fate in her hands.

We slathered on the sunscreen and rolled up our shorts. So far, so good. Our oars sliced through the water with the precision of an egg beater chopping rocks. Less than twenty feet from our embarkation point, the river made a little turn, and so did we – upside down. The water was barely a foot deep, and I could still see the bottom. No problem. We righted the canoe, climbed back in, and pushed off for our second attempt.

“Mom, I’m in the back. I’ll steer. You just paddle straight and keep an eye out for obstacles.”

“Right.”

The rest of the family meandered down the river, in front of us. We paddled like hell to catch up. Ahead, a large sycamore had fallen across the river blocking all but a small section of water. Everyone maneuvered by the tree with ease – except us. Our canoe headed straight for it.

“You’re supposed to be steering,” I shouted.

“You’re supposed to be on lookout duty.”

“Okay, big tree ahead.” I paddled like a lunatic.

The tree had apparently died of old age, rotted at the base, and fallen across the river. Fortunately, there were no leaves or limbs to deal with. The main section of the trunk was about six inches above the water. Both ends were slightly submerged. We got caught in a whirlpool, and our canoe spun sideways and slammed into the tree. We fell out and the force of the water tipped us upside down. My shirt caught on the bow, and I was sucked under.

I don’t remember if my whole life flashed before my eyes because I was too busy trying to get untangled. I finally pulled free, but the current was so strong I couldn’t get my bearings. By this time, the others in our group had come to our rescue.

My daughter was on her feet barking orders. “Mom, stand up. The water’s only two feet deep.”

Easier said than done, but I finally managed. The rest of the group worked to free our canoe. It took half an hour of pushing and pulling before we resumed our journey. The canoe suffered a dent to its underside. My pride was only slightly more damaged. We tipped a few more times before we reached the bridge, which marked the end of our float.

At dinner, I was the talk of the table. Sure, everyone showed their concern, but there were snickers hidden behind cleverly placed napkins. The conversation turned to the next day’s activities and the possibility of another float trip. No way!

I sought out my “smart” sister-in-law. “How do you feel about antiquing tomorrow?”

She grinned.

She gets to stay in my will.