A photograph can tell a story and gently soothe the soul as it brings to mind people, moments, and places in our lives. One such photo sits on my desk, offering reflective inspiration as I write each day.

I remember posing with my youngest brother and my doll, Susie, in front of a plastic-covered sofa on a hot summer day. With dirt on my legs, hair in a ponytail, bangs cut too short, my wide grin showed I was a happy little girl. My brother wore huge sunglasses, his baseball glove in his hand, and his favorite pants and jacket which were much too hot for the summer heat.

Without this photo, would I remember my doll Susie? Probably. My brother’s big glasses and the jacket he loved? Yes. My bangs cut too short? Yes, because I am the one who cut them. But when I glance at the picture, it plunges me deeper into my memory bank to carefree summers, when my brothers and I were young, untouched by anything heavier than the southern humidity. We were barefoot, bright-eyed, and unaware we were creating memories we would never forget.

Time moved slowly then, like the world had nowhere to go, and simple pleasures filled our days. There was always something exciting to do—or to us it was exciting.

If I close my eyes and drain my mind of today’s busy world, I relive one of those summers. Travel back with me to a simpler time where the music of living filled every moment.

It was a typical Southern summer. The heat rose in shimmering waves, wrapping itself around everything like a thick quilt. With scraped knees and bruised elbows, we ran barefoot like wild things, the dust beneath our feet kicking up puffs of dirt that settled between our toes. Sweat slid down our faces like rivers, and Kool-Aid stained our mouths bright red.

The water from the well was cold and tasted faintly of iron. We’d take turns gulping it from the garden hose (we called it a hose pipe), water splashing down our chins. But the hose wasn’t just for quenching our thirst. When we sprayed the water high in the air from side to side, it became our backyard water park. We’d run and dive through it, slipping and sliding, our laughter mixing with the splash and squish of muddy summer joy.

Swimming in the pond without Mama or Daddy was off-limits, but that didn’t stop my two older brothers. I’d often be on the back porch, playing with my doll while Mama snapped beans we’d picked that morning, when the unmistakable sound of a loud splash would catch both of our attention.

“Hey Tom, watch this!” my brother Jim would holler, followed by another splash and laughter that rolled right up through the woods, across the garden like thunder with a smile.

Mama would sigh, pause for a moment as if gathering her thoughts, and then go right back to snapping beans. I watched Mama’s face until I saw it. Laughter. First in her eyes, then came a soft giggle.

“That is music to my ears,” she said. “The sound of my children playing.”

Our garden produced enough beans, peas, okra, tomatoes, cucumbers, and corn to feed the community. Each morning, while dew was still on the ground, Mama handed each of us a basket and showed us what to pick and what to leave. I was afraid of the bees swarming around the plants until Mama explained the important role the pollinators play in the garden. She taught me to listen to the music of their wings.

We spent little time inside, except to cool off from the blazing heat and when Mama called us in for lunch—a sliced tomato and fried bologna sandwich on soft white bread. I ate mine sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the screen door, where the rattling attic fan pulled the air through the house.

My pink 45 rpm record player sat in the corner. While I ate my sandwich, I played my favorite songs. The needle would land on the vinyl record, and then the voice of Elvis would come through the speaker singing Hound Dog. Sometimes it was Patsy Cline singing Crazy. My doll, Susie, always sat beside me, and I pretended we were famous singers. She wasn’t anything special; just a doll with red hair in a green dress, the same soft green as the cucumbers in our garden. I named all my dolls Susie or Judy. I don’t know why. It was just what I did.

Most days, from somewhere down the road, the hum of a push mower floated through the pines, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass, while the distant rumble of a tractor plowing through dry earth created a steady chorus in the background of our rural life.

We played and worked all week, but Sundays were meant for rest. After church and a fried-chicken dinner, we’d gather on the porch, digging into ice cream made with fresh eggs gathered from our chickens and creamy milk from our cow, then churned by hand in a crank freezer. I sat quietly at Daddy’s feet as he strummed his guitar, his deep, soulful voice bringing to life the songs of his generation. I especially liked Blueberry Hill and Peace in the Valley.

I often think about how quickly time has passed. My children are parents now. I didn’t name my daughter Susie or Judy, which still surprises me. You’d think after naming every one of my childhood dolls those names, it would’ve stuck. But she had another name waiting for her, and it was perfect.

The attic fan pulling. Records spinning. Screen door slapping shut. Mama’s voice calling. Bees humming in the garden. Laughter echoing from the pond. Daddy singing. All are sounds of the music of summer, memories brought to life because of one photo that sits on my desk.

Photos tell stories. They are the music of living. What stories will your photos tell?

Follow the link to my bookshop where you will see details about my book, Harvest: Recipes, Stories, and Memories of a Southern Family Heritage. 250+ recipes and read more about simpler days and times.

And how about Patsy Cline or Elvis? Let’s do Patsy Cline for those who might not remember the days of 45 records! Crazy by Patsy Cline.