My mother's baking pans emerged today, as my sweet husband began making oven-baked bread for Christmas. Interesting how one little object can draw out so many distinct memories. I recall so vividly arriving home from school, jumping off the big yellow Yarbrough school bus driven by either Clifford or Ferry Taylor, and being drawn into the house by the smell of home-made bread. Oh, the delightful goodness of eating fresh-out-of-the-oven bread with butter melting on the top! More than the distinct smell coming from the house as we ran in for the snack, is the memory of belonging; the sheer value in knowing our Mom cared enough to have the bread ready for us at the exact time we arrived home from school. We are so fortunate!
Copyright 2014. S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation.
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