It's strange... I didn't think it would
affect me at all considering I moved away from the family home 40
years ago, but... I found myself laying awake last night walking from
room to room and about the yard of the house that was sold yesterday
and now belongs to a stranger.
I paused at each doorway, looking
around (all in my mind of course) remembering events or views
from 40, 45, 50 years and more ago. I remember sharing a bedroom
with my older brother, of riding a pedal car round and round the
basement and crashing into the hot water tank, of playing badminton in the back yard with my mother, of
mowing the lawn, the smell of the lilac bush in the corner, the maple
tree and the gold fish that
lived in the little pond near where two dogs are buried.
I remember picking potato bugs off the plants in the garden and shielded flashlights searching out night crawlers for fishing the next day. I remember the flower beds with the Begonia and Gladiola plants that my father took such pride in each year and sitting on the front porch in the evenings playing I spy with my little eye...
I remember picking potato bugs off the plants in the garden and shielded flashlights searching out night crawlers for fishing the next day. I remember the flower beds with the Begonia and Gladiola plants that my father took such pride in each year and sitting on the front porch in the evenings playing I spy with my little eye...
I remember the Saturday night hockey
games on TV (only 3 English channels and 1 French with just 6 teams in those days) when my Uncle Cecil would come over, bringing
hot dogs and buns for a late night snack. I remember good times and
not so good times, of card games
and crockinole matches and playing marbles using a hole
we had chipped out in the cement floor of the basement and the dart
games that we never could beat my father at.
I remember the planting of the cedar
hedge around the property that replaced the Chinese Elm trees that
were dying out and playing on the board piles along the river, and
being reminded by the sting of a willow switch on the back of my bare
legs that I wasn't supposed to be so close to the edge of the river bank.
I remember the annual making of the dressing from the secret recipe my Grandmother had written out on a piece of paper towel (that I still have) and the challenge and discomfort of seeing who could eat the most at Christmas dinner (3 guys and only 2 drumsticks). I remember a thousand details that in time became me...
I remember the annual making of the dressing from the secret recipe my Grandmother had written out on a piece of paper towel (that I still have) and the challenge and discomfort of seeing who could eat the most at Christmas dinner (3 guys and only 2 drumsticks). I remember a thousand details that in time became me...
I remember.... no, that's enough....
time to move on... again.
