Grapes

Over 50 years ago - maybe closer to 60 - the house my grandmother lived in had a grape arbor just out the back door, off the porch.  I think it was very close to a sealed over well; my vague memory is of it being somewhat "off limits", or at least dangerous.
I have not thought of that grape vine in many years.  It is, of course, long gone - as is the house.
My sister-in-law came to visit yesterday, and brought us a little baggie of Scuppernong grapes.  This afternoon I wanted a snack, so got some of the grapes.  And I stood at the kitchen sink, eating grapes, with tears rolling down my face.  I did not know you could taste a memory!!
Everyone knows, of course, the *correct* way to eat a Scuppernong grape is to bite down just enough to break the skin.  Then you squeeze the sweet juicy miside into your mouth, and throw away the slightly bitter, slightly tough skin.  They taste like childhood.  They taste like bare feet in grass, and sticky juice running down my chin and fingers.  They taste like the sound of buzzing flies.  They taste like lazy yard cats sleeping in the summer sun (but dodging sticky young fingers).  
They tasste like carefree sunny days when feeling loved and cared for was a given, and the biggest worry was avoiding bee stings.
I have a glimpse of why Jimmy keeps wanting to "go home".  So do I.