“I remember I remember the house where I was born.”
The windows shone.
The floors were shiny.
Something delicious always simmered away on the old wood stove.
Good smells of baking filled the air.
Through the long winter evenings we sat close to its warmth.
My Mother reading to us.
The Old Curiosity Shop.
My bedroom was tiny.
Filled with books and dolls and a big window that brought the outside in.
Heavy quilts tucked tightly around us.
Kept us safe from the dark.
Mother told us stories of her own.
The Door in the Forest.
Magical stories of exciting adventure for those with the courage to open the door.
“I remember I remember the house where I was born”.
Seventy-eight years ago today.
(with a bow to Thomas Hood for the delightful poem I REMEMBER THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN)
With a grateful bow to Thomas Hood for the poem (I REMEMBER I REMEMBER THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN).
I returned to my home town of Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, a few weeks ago. My sisters and I traveled the streets of our childhood. Very little had changed, and yet nothing was the same. The corner grocery store where we would buy a brick of Neopolitan ice cream had become a chic coffee house. We didn’t have a refrigerator. In those days our ice was delivered in one large shimmering block. The iceman, holding it with enormous tongs, would chop the edges to fit into the icebox. We gathered the melting chips in our hands and sucked them with great delight. Thomas Wolfe said “You Can’t Go Home Again”, but sometimes you can – even if it is just for a brief time.