I am a “stoop” sitter. No, my body is not bent. My “stoop” is a small set of stairs leading to the entrance of my house.

Since I don’t have a front porch, I sit on my stoop.

From my stoop I can see large oak trees and at the far back of the property cottonwood trees — they are my favorite. Their “butterfly” leaves softly rustle in the breeze and their branches genuflect to strong winds.

Cottonwoods send me back to a sweeter time in my life. When I was 4 or 5, I spent many nights at my grandparents’ house. As my eyes became heavy with sleep the last conscious moment was the sound of the cottonwood leaves lulling me into dreamland through open windows.

Grandma had an old Singer pedal sewing machine and made patterns from newspaper and made my clothes from soft flowery feed sack and flour sacks.

The wash house was a tin building in the back yard. Her washing machine was the wringer type. She’d push the clothes through the wringer and I’d pull them out of the wringer.

We’d hang the wet clothes on a tall clothesline and hoped it wouldn’t rain.

Those days are gone, but as I sit watching the trees swing and sway and listen to the gentle sounds of the night, the tightness in my shoulders relax and the tension of the day slips away.

The summer litanies of the tree frogs, cicadas and distant howls of the coyotes again send me to another place in time.

During the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s my grandparents operated a fishing camp on a muddy, slow moving bayou in Southeast Texas. I spent as much time there as possible.

Grandma’s garden yielded fresh vegetables. The chickens clucked merry tunes and it was as if time stood still. I can still smell the fried chicken, freshly picked turnip greens, and field peas.

The days were hot and lazy with little to do but watch the water roll around the bluff.

These memories cling to my psyche like a rare soft snow on the branches of the tall forest of East Texas pine trees.

When I was in college in a small East Texas town, I saved my tip money from working in a Mexican food restaurant and bought a $30 bicycle from Sears and Roebuck. Back in those days college students didn’t have cars and few had bicycles.

The rains seemed to drench the town every summer afternoon. These warm summer rains did not deter my bike riding. In fact, I loved to ride on the slick streets feeling the heavy, soft rain drops caress my skin.

Warm rain hitting hot East Texas red dirt smells like Patchouli oil. I still love that smell and wear Patchouli oil and lotion even now.

Smell is strong sense that takes us to other places for small moments.

I rented a room for $25 a month in Mrs. Summer’s boarding house for young ladies. The room was small and furnished with a single antique spindle bed and a tiny vanity. It had no air conditioning, but the turn-of-the-century house had floor-to-ceiling windows which stayed open all the time.

My room was directly above another room. At night when it rained I would climb out of the window and sit naked on the roof of the floor below, letting the rain wash over me, cooling my hot, sweaty body.

I don’t sleep so well, so my favorite stoop-sitting times are between 9 p.m. and 5 a.m. before the sun’s rays break over the horizon.

In the far distance, roosters yell out their good morning wake-up calls, crows caw in response to the hooting owls and birds wake each other with sharp chirping songs.

When the now-world threatens to crush the breath from my soul, my mind wanders through memories of yesteryears.

Each person has his or her own special sanctuary. Mine just happens to be a stoop leading to the door to my everyday life.

Donna Myers of Waco is a vocational rehabilitation teacher.