Memory Lane

Forget Comfort Foods, Try This Instead

Posted on January 7, 2013 by Kami

Comfort foods.  I could wax poetic about all the varieties, textures, tastes, emotions and colors of myriad edibles.  So could you.

Have you ever considered “comfort memories?”

It’s self-explanatory.  Here’s an easy example.

My son can put himself to sleep by remembering himself through a specific ski run at a specific resort.  Recalling the swoosh of the snow under his board, the bite of the cold across his cheeks, the trees as they blur past, the feel of his muscles as he moves to catch a curve and negotiates the bumps and jumps, all combine to relax and calm him into a deep and restful sleep.

Nice way to put yourself to sleep, huh? I think so.

I have a way of relaxing myself when I’m feeling ill or in pain that, if I remember to remember it, works very well to comfort and ease my body and mind. It’s rooted in how I was cared for as a child when I was sick. It’s definitely a comfort memory.

Asleep on the couch

Asleep on the couch (Photo credit: geekdreams)

I recall pillows propped on the dark green couch, blankets tucked around me, with the TV on low and bluish across the room.  I remember the smell and taste of the concoction Mom would mix. It consisted of a bit of warm water, a spoonful of paregoric, and some sugar.  It was a licorice smell and taste, somewhat bitter, but eased by that spoonful of sugar.  My tummy always settled out if I was nauseous, my sore throat eased.  Sleep came easier in spite of noise or fever or pain.  I can still feel the coolness of the pillowcase as she turned my pillow to the cool side when my fever was high.  There would often be a cool cloth on my forehead and smoothed across my hands and arms, pulling the heat from my body and sending a swell of relaxation through my tired, aching limbs. Even if she was only checking my fever, Mom’s hand on my cheek let me feel cared for, loved and safe.

If I can conjure that image, those sensations, then I can settle into a rest that reminds me of that love.  I can relax and let the discomfort of whatever hurts lift away from me, even if only momentarily.

To know such care and comfort should fall to every child.  Every adult should be able to pull from the library of memory such a book, filled with tales of love and triumph.

What memories bring peace to you?  Is there anything you can recall from childhood, or adulthood, that on remembering, brings comfort, peace, joy, relaxation, love?

Categories: Family, Love, Memory Lane, parenting | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Magic of a Dusty Country Road

Posted on January 6, 2013 by Kami
Dirt road

Dirt road (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Bouncing in the passenger seat of the dual wheel truck, dust billowing behind us, I rest my arm out the window, letting the leaves and bushes tickle my hand as we drive past.  If we were driving faster it would hurt to do this, but the ruts and rocks of this particular stretch of dirt road keep our speed at a minimum.  The truck eases right into the bushes and we slow even more as we make room for a jeep coming down the road toward us.  As that cloud of dust draws closer my father raises his left hand and waves at the jeep. A man with a cowboy hat lifts his hand in response as the two vehicles ease past each other.

“Who was that?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” replies my dad.

“But you waved at them,” I venture.

“Yup,” he says.

“So if you don’t know that man, why did you wave to him?” I push.

“Cuz, that’s what you do out in the country.” He punctuates the sentence in a way I know means that’s the end of this conversation. Not abrupt, not angry, just “that’s all there is to say about that,” communicated in an inflection, a tone or a breath.

A few minutes later, a truck lumbers past us, he waves, they wave, and I ask. “Who was that?”

“Don’t know,” he responds.

“But…”

“Yup, that’s what we do out here,” he says with a relaxed twang to his voice.

The fifteen mile road we bump along that day provided several more similar scenes.  As we emerged on the asphalt and headed toward home I dangled my hand out the window to ride the slipstream of air that blew past. I felt the temperature rise as we s-curved our way down the mountain pass.  I sighed as the scent in the air changed from pine to scrub oak, and from scrub oak to suburb.

We drove past many cars once we reached the main roads of our town and never did my dad raise a hand in a hello. I didn’t ask. When we reached our neighborhood, he wave once, twice. Then we pulled into the driveway and I hopped out of the truck.

Country roads were a staple in my life, for a variety of reasons, camping, canoeing, checking on the beehives my dad had stashed in various places, breakfast picnics, a day at the reservoir, or simply to go for a drive. Often my siblings came along, sometimes the whole family, occasionally just me.  Always the same ritual of waving to strangers happened. Sometimes he even talked to strangers. “Anything biting?” he might ask a man with a fishing pole. Or “Howdy!” he might say to a couple of kids walking in the dusty dunes of tire tracks.

The Pacific Northwest Trail

The Pacific Northwest Trail (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

All those roads taught me a kind of etiquette that isn’t in books. Out in the country, on back roads, on hiking trails, lakeside, or mid-river, there is an unspoken understanding. There is a camaraderie in solitary places, in nature, that temporarily suspends the walls we erect in ordinary places. There is permission granted in green open spaces that lets us, encourages us even, to be friendly, to be kind, to be more than ourselves.

To pass someone on a hiking trail and not say “hello” or “good morning” is unthinkable for me.   Brief eye contact seems like a given as well. At the very least, a nod of the head or a smile is a must. Conversation is optional, but allowed.

Similar behavior at a shopping mall, in the grocery store, walking down the sidewalk, gets you weird looks and feels completely off the mark.

I haven’t analyzed this too much. Just noticed it. Seems there are many unspoken rules that are difficult to explain, but make sense just the same.

One thing is clear to me. I need to travel fewer paved roads, and I need more dust clouds in my rearview mirror.

I’m drawn to the outdoors by the beauty and serenity of it all. There is energy and peace found in nature that nothing else can match. I wonder if maybe part of the attraction is also the relaxing of barriers, the lowering of the defenses, the slightly more open connection with other human beings.

Categories: Family, Memory Lane, Outdoors, Relationships | Tags: , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Childhood Revisited: Swinging In From a Star

Posted on December 8, 2012 by Kami

Today’s post  is a response to this WordPress Daily Post writing prompt.: “What is your earliest memory? Describe it in detail, and tell us why you think that experience was the one to stick with you.”

 

Pressing my face into the mesh of memory, I’ve searched and searched for details from my earliest childhood.  My attempts to peel back the layers, clarify the view and remove the dust and cobwebs find little substance. 

The few memories that surface are vague at best.  I couldn’t tell you how old I was, only where I was, but not when.  It’s as if I’m waiting for movie clips about myself from the outside like an independent observer.  But in reality the only point of view is from the inside looking out.  There aren’t any movie trailers.

Well, there are those 8mm films my parents took.  But that’s a memory of a memory.

There is this one clear, unchanging mental image, my first memory, my first awareness of being. My first experience with me-ness. 

I am walking between my dad and my mom, going up the street towards our little white clapboard house.  Each of them has taken hold of one of my hands. Whether I could walk on my own, I have no idea.  Maybe I was young enough that they were encouraging walking, or I could have been older and needing to be kept in check by the two of them. The world is vague and blotchy, all color and wash. The features of most things have no distinct form or shape. Our house is the only clear landmark.

The sensation of a hand in each of theirs is vivid; warmth and energy pulse into me.  And then, suddenly, I am soaring up and out, secured between them like a swing.  Then I am walking on the ground again.  I hear, “One, two, three!” and I sail out into the air again, safely tethered to them both.

Multiple times they count and launch me heavenward.  Each “three” creates the sensation of my body feeling free and ephemeral, accompanied by gravity’s pull back between them. Whether I spoke the words or merely thought them, my mind says, “again,” after each swing out and back. 

night sky

night sky (Photo credit: dcysurfer / Dave Young)

I remember laughter, mine or theirs.  Both, I’m sure.

I could easily believe a tale of my birth as a launching from heaven, lofted into the cosmos, riding a wave of star dust and gently landing between my father and mother. Caught between the two of them, I scatter dust from my journey as I swing back and forth, back and forth.  It’s a fairy tale worth holding on to. 

My earliest memory of childhood makes it feel as if I came swinging into this world suspended between them, held fast by love and joy.

 

 

 

 

Categories: Love, Memory Lane, parenting, Wondering | Tags: , , , , | 6 Comments

Many Years Ago, Or Just Yesterday

Posted on November 24, 2012 by Kami

I slip away from the house after school is over but before the pre-dinner chores start-up.  A walk at the park feels like what I need to sort through the weirdness of the day, to think for a few  minutes without a crush of noise and piano music in the background.  There’s too big of a chance that a bunch of little kids would come screaming down the big hill racing each other to the woods, so I figure I’ll head over to the park boundary, near where the orchards and alfalfa fields meet up.

So far, not another person in sight, not even the usual random high school couple parked in the far corner of the parking lot.  Makes me breathe easier to feel like I have the whole place to myself.  At the big hill I’m feeling kid like, so I lay sideways and roll down as far as I can before my lopsidedness rolls me off at a right angle.  I’ve never figured out how to make myself roll straight to the bottom, arms up over my head I go crooked, arms by my sides I go even more crooked.  Dang.

Grasses

(Photo credit: Matt Ohia)

Shaking my head I clear my hair of grass and leaves.  I love this time of year, not really summer, not really autumn yet.  Still warm days, the leaves mostly green.  My allergies aren’t even bothering me the past few weeks.  Nice not to have a runny nose and itchy eyes for a change.  I kick out a couple of cartwheels.  I go so fast it feels almost like when you spin a bucket of water really fast and the water stays in even when it’s upside down.

Suddenly I feel like I’ve got this extra burst of energy from somewhere and I take off running.  I don’t just run straight, but zoom around like a rabbit or something.  I dive forward into the grass and roll into a ball and somersault to a stop.  I jump up, cart-wheel a couple more times to the edge of the grassy area.  I look behind me, and scan the circumference of the park.  No one here still.  Good.

I step off the grass and onto a barely noticeable path sloping through what looks like tall, pale wheat stalks.  Maybe it’s just wild grasses.  I don’t know.  I just know it doesn’t get mowed and may not even be park property.  It’s probably the boundary for the farmer’s land.  I’ve never seen anyone out here, although there is a tractor parked in different places out on the fields or the dirt road in the distance.  This piece of land I’m on is up above all those cultivated, irrigated, neat rowed areas.  This is like a forgotten little dry hillside that the farmer just ignores.  There’s a small bunch of scrub oak off to the left and a lot more tall grass off to the right leading to the big wooded area of the lower park.  I’m close enough to the park that if Mom sent someone down to the park to holler for me, I’d probably hear them.  But I’m far enough away, that no one can see me where I am.  It’s a cozy little spot of quiet.  I like it.  I like it a lot.

Grass

(Photo credit: DBduo Photography)

All that running and rolling and silliness has made my heart race and I feel a bit sweaty.  A breeze would be nice, but it’s not too warm either.  The grass thins out some on the left and I find a spot to sit down.  I all but disappear in the tall grassy wheat stuff.  If I lay down, for sure I’d be as good as disappeared.  That actually sounds nice, so I break off a piece of grass, put it in my mouth and lay back with my arms behind my head as a pillow.  I know you think I’m gonna say, “this is the life,” or something like that.  But I don’t think that.  I don’t think at all.  I just breathe in deep.  I inhale  that dusty dry grass smell, the green smell of the alfalfa, the heat of my own sweaty body.  I breathe all that in because I’m still a bit out of breath.  As I breathe my body relaxes like I’m on a soft feather bed.  My back melts into the ground below me, my legs soften and stretch and ease.  I feel just a bit drowsy but not sleepy.  Actually, it’s more like feeling hypnotized like you do when you’re in a rocking chair on a porch after a game of freeze tag in the evening.

Looking up, the sky has a few little brushes of clouds, nothing really fluffy.  But enough to have not just blue, but white too.  The blue is really something else.  I look at it harder and think, there are stars out there that I can’t see, but they are there.  If I look toward the mountains a couple of miles away I can see the clouds moving, or is it the earth moving.  Or is it both?

Just as I’m noticing the earth moving, in a slow big way, but fast at the same time, I notice the strangest sensation.  It’s like I can feel the ground beneath me breathe ever so slightly.  Like a deep sigh, only warmer, and barely noticeable. I know, you think I have a pretty wild imagination.  You’d be right, I have a really good imagination, but this is not imagined.  This is real.  As real as it gets. I’ve never had anything like this happen before.  This is surprising, but so comfortable and somehow not as strange as it sounds.

I sigh, just as the ground sighed a moment ago and relax deeper still.

The odd thing is that I don’t feel tiny and insignificant.  I feel melted into it all, like I’m part of the sky, part of the earth, part of those grass stalks, part of the smell of green and blue and gold. The earth is me and I have become her.

Categories: Joy, Memory Lane, Outdoors | Tags: , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Fluff and Fill of Life

Posted on November 11, 2012 by Kami

The late afternoon sun hangs just above the tops of the trees as I sit on the front porch.   Pots and hanging baskets filled with Impatiens and petunias need watering, but I’m ignoring that for now. The air is just beginning to cool from the warmth of the afternoon.  A short break, sitting quietly out on the porch, is just what I need before the evening chores, kid’s baths and bedtime rituals begin.

I close my eyes and let my head lie back against the chair. A few stolen moments of deep breathing will be as good or better than a nap. I can feel the buzz of the day’s busy-ness still in my head, a kind of hum of steady movement through a list too long.  The sound of children playing far in the distance lends itself to a slowly spreading sense of calm. A car drives past on the next street over. Birds question each other with chirps and tweets. The neighbor’s dog tosses out a bark. I can feel myself slipping toward sleep. No worries if I do, it won’t last long.

“Mom?”

I can hear the call inside the house somewhere, probably in a back bedroom. I keep my eyes closed, keep my breathing quiet and steady. Maybe the sound will find a different outlet. I inhale deeper, let the breath out slowly.

Even though I can hear laughter, it seems as if it’s simply part of a semi-waking, half-dozing dream. When the screen door beside me protests with its squeaking and rattling, I open my eyes just slightly. I do not, however, turn my head, or speak, or move.

My two little girls stand in the doorway, the tallest of the two holding the door open. They look at each other and cover their mouths to stifle their giggles. They whisper something back and forth to each other. The screen door creaks slowly shut, the latch just catching.

I wonder sleepily what the giggling means, and peer carefully through my lashes.

My two girls hunch down at the sidewalk beside the mailbox picking dandelions from the lawn. I could expect to find a bouquet in my lap any minute now. My youngest stands with her small scrunched cluster of yellow flowers and white puff-balls. She puts her face into the bouquet, but instead of inhaling their muzzley smell, she puffs her cheeks out and blows. She watches as her little handful of treasures explodes into small white umbrellas, tiny seed pod passengers dangling below.

dandelion_2008041638

dandelion_2008041638 (Photo credit: 邪恶的正太)

My older daughter quickly follows with a breath of air and a sort of magic wand wave of the bundle of white and yellow. White wisps float away. They both laugh and each quickly gathers another handful, this time ignoring the plain yellow dandelions. They snap only the stems of white fluff. Instead of blowing on the whole handful at once, they each take a turn blowing the seed pods free from one stem at a time. From a distance a passerby would think they were blowing bubbles from a plastic jar of soapy solution.

Empty stems fall on the sidewalk as they stoop to pick more. One sends her flower heads skyward while the other chases, jumping and flailing. Their laughter bubbles over, a refreshing sound to my ears, a nice respite from their usual bickering.

Time seems to slow to a stand-still, yet the sun drops lower in the western sky, now filtering through the topmost branches of distant trees. The angle of light at this time of day brightens colors, exaggerates whites, shows off every dust mote and hovering insect.

I watch my daughters as they do a sort of slow motion ballet. The two young girls gather more handfuls of glorious white weeds and send them heavenward. They create a blizzard of fluff filled with the sound of their delight. Surely they’ll tire of this game soon, I think to myself as I observe their leaps and laughter. Instead, they take a cluster in each hand and spin in a circle, creating a swirling breeze that catches and carries the ephemeral seeds in loops and eddies.

Sunlight wafts through the scene like an added sound of joy on the breeze. Each poof of white shimmers and dances. The halo of curly blond hair on my youngest daughter glows silver as she spins and dances and smiles. My older daughter’s long brown locks capture the light and create a golden aura as she twirls and leaps and laughs.

Peace settles like shimmering star-dust on my shoulders. The music of the moment fills the air and swirls through me as these two small angels dance in a fleeting vision.

It comes to me, clearer than any revelation. Heaven is here. Heaven is now.

Categories: Joy, Memory Lane, parenting | Tags: , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Bird on the Wing and Sheets to the Wind

Posted on October 12, 2012 by Kami

English: Flying Herring Gull (Larus argentatus...

We had a tree in the back yard that I used to climb.  Don’t get too excited, it wasn’t very big by adult standards.  I don’t even remember what kind it was or what color the leaves changed to in the fall.  A sturdy, low, side angled branch, its most distinguishing feature, made it easy to climb.  On more than a few occasions I climbed that tree with a sheet, or blanket or cape of some kind, determined to use its height as my launch pad, my runway, my base for a flying leap.

My childish imagination and child-like faith saw me soaring on the sails I held tightly waded in my fist.  If the wind were blowing hard enough, I reasoned, I’d be able to stay aloft at least sixty seconds.  I’ll admit there were doubts floating about my head, which I tried to extinguish, but hope won out over fear as I made my way to the outer limbs.

I would look out at the back yard, cautiously eye the power line looping low from a pole to the house.  Then, I would envision myself lifting into the air.  Closing my eyes I’d leap out into a gust of wind.  I was always surprised that there wasn’t even the least little sensation of lift, hesitation or sense of flight.  The ground came up to meet me quickly and decisively.

My feet usually had that burning sensation from landing so hard, a sort of instant but fleeting numbness kept me on the grass.  Analyzing the situation I almost always concluded that I just didn’t believe enough.  Gravity, lift, or physics never entered my equation.  I was sure that my doubts pulled me down and kept me grounded.

If the wind stayed gusty I would often try several more times.  Climbing with my sheet or towel, thinking birdlike thoughts, willing it to be possible, I repeatedly leapt out into the invisible air certain THIS time would be it.

Hope versus reason.  Naysayers abound.  Negativity runs rampant.  One seldom hears of miracles.  And yet…

And yet, we all still climb.  We climb out of bed and face a difficult day.  We climb into our cars and work at a soul-numbing job to support a family. We climb over the obstacles that life throws at us and we keep moving.  We climb a mountain of despair after a loss and hope for less pain and brighter days. We climb through the paperwork and jump through the hoops to get the support and help a loved one needs.  We climb and we climb and we climb.

And every day we make that leap of faith and hope.

I am still a flightless child.  But inside, part of me still thinks the seemingly impossible could be possible if I just keep trying.

Categories: Memory Lane | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

There’s Something in the Air

Posted on October 8, 2012 by Kami

Cow female black white

On opening the microwave door today I caught whiff yesterday mornings bacon smell and was mentally propelled into my paternal grandparents home.  It was quite nearly like being teleported. Certain brands of coffee brewing will take me there, as will Grandpa’s brand of cigarettes, a smell I find oddly endearing, precisely because it is so closely associated with memories of my Grandfather.  Grandma wouldn’t let him smoke inside the house, so he went out to the garage, or the garden when he needed to light up.  If we couldn’t find Grandpa in the house, we knew we could find him outdoors simply by following our noses.  And the bacon?  When our family visited they cooked up a storm for us.  Mounded heaps of pancakes, sausage and bacon sat center stage at their table.  Grandpa was the cook.  Grandma sat at the table sipping her morning coffee overseeing our amazingly decadent feast.  We didn’t get bacon at our house. That was a luxury item.

Smell is surely the most evocative of all the memories.

Lilacs used to grow along our backyard fence when I was very young.  That heady fragrance carries with it a sense of calm and a feeling that all is right with the world.

My favorite restaurant experience ever was less about the five-star service and phenomenal food and more due to the fact that they used wood fired stoves.  I have many, many cherished memories of cooking over a camp fire, so the wood smoke atmosphere lent an ambiance to the meal that could be had not other way.

Old Spice cologne brings out memories of my dad.  Falling asleep in church with my head leaning against his shoulder stands out particularly.  He also carried in his pocket a small container of mint lifesavers, broken into fourths.  That waft of mint in the air will place my thoughts squarely in a church pew, a sermon droning, sleepiness weighing my eyes down.

Fresh cut grass transports me to the park I grew up nearby.  When that scent hits the air in my head I’m rolling down hills, catching fly balls and throwing Frisbees.

Books have a certain smell, especially library books.  It’s a sort of musty, dusty, inky papery scent that sets me down on the couch next to mom hearing her reading.  The melody of her voice drifts across the years and settles in at the very center of me.  The world all-akimbo rights itself from that one singular sensation.  Who knew the power that could be found in the smell a book carries.

I worked in a print shop for a year once.  Never thought I’d get over being blown away by the strong ink smell that permeated every atom in the building.  No surprise in that connection of  ink and words.  For me, the print shop placed me one tiny step closer to my childhood dream of someday being published, having my words set down in ink.  And so the smell of printer’s ink is the call and promise of a distant dream, a hope in the air.

A dairy farm is distinctly aromatic.  For most people it isn’t a pleasant distinction.  I spent a week once, and a few days over the years, in the company of a happy family who owned dairy cows, and with them  the required hay fields,  farm machinery, and relaxed country drawl.  I adored helping out at milking time.  It was a mechanized operation that fascinated me.  My job was to pull the lever that sent a shower of grain into a feeding trough for the beautiful black and white beasts to munch on as the suction cups emptied their udders.  It was an important job!  The smell of manure, grain, milk and dust was a heady thing, full of responsibility, pride and usefulness.  Those smells to this day conjure such wonder-filled emotions.

I can tell that today will be a day of breathing deeply and searching for memories in those breaths.

Is there a scent or fragrance richly tied to memory for you?  Have you ever been surprised by a smell, having been, until that moment, unaware of the power of it’s chemistry?

 

 

 

Categories: Memory Lane | Tags: , , , , | 3 Comments

Safety Pins and String

Posted on October 6, 2012 by Kami

“Stay away from the river!” Grandma would holler at us, not skipping a beat in whatever project she was in up to her elbows.

My cousins and I would let the screen door slam behind us as we headed outside. That wasn’t usually where we were planning on going, but it was where we always ended up.  First we’d circle around the enormous backyard, and do some exploring.  We might, or we might not, play in the old leaning barn, it’s smell of fresh hay and filtered sunlight and dust so tempting.  We might take off down the lane to see whatever there was to see that day.  Or we’d spy on the younger cousins, keeping well out of their vision lest we get wrangled by our parents into watching out for them.  There were some old foundations of buildings overgrown with grass and vines in another part of the tangled growth that was our cousins’ territory. Those were interesting places for the imagination to work with.

Inevitable

Safety pin, photo taken in Japan

But no matter what we might find to keep us entertained while the adults did their endless visiting, we would wind up at the river.  It was inevitable.  The river wasn’t even fifty yards away from Grandma’s front porch.  There wasn’t a fence or a barrier of any kind to keep us away from it’s beautiful gurgling, rush of water.  Besides that, it called to us, I’m sure of it.  “Come and play, come and play” it’s eddies and swirls would whisper.  Who could resist the call of a river?

The spot we favored was a small arching curve out where the river took a decidedly left-hand turn.  This served to slow the water down a bit.  Our favorite spot to play was a little rocky shallow area with willows and reeds just beside the slough.  “Stay away from that slough!” was another of Grandma’s favorite warnings.   The slough was a boggy grown in mess of mucky water that we wouldn’t dream of exploring. Our private area on the river’s shore, where we cautiously waded in and chucked rocks had clear splashy water with plenty of rocks on the shore to choose from.   It was quiet and hidden and felt like no other place on earth.

Fishing Heaven

If we had planned ahead we’d have a couple of safety pins, and some string.  And then we would have found some nice long sturdy sticks to attach them to.  We’d fling our short, makeshift lines out into the current only to have them immediately float right back to us.  I don’t think the string was ever quite long enough.  And even though our unmarried uncle sold bait to the real fishermen that frequented the river in that area, it never really dawned on us to bring some bait ourselves.  Impaling a wriggly worm on a safety-pin was the last thing I would dream of doing. Had we caught a fish, we wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with it. We were only pretending at everything we did anyway.

My cousins, who lived next door to Grandma, probably got to do real fishing all the time and were just humoring me.  Although, it seems they were every bit as invested in the process as I was.  Our bi-monthly visits to Grandma’s were a treat for us as well as for them.  We surely lived a charmed life when we got together.

With the vast amount cousins that spent time at Grandma’s it’s a miracle that no one ever drowned. I think there must have been some busy guardian angels at that spot in the river.  A few of the younger cousins seemed drawn to mayhem and mischief like flies to honey.  Or was it that mischief and mayhem was drawn to them?  That’s the more likely of the two.  I’m sure there were angels, or maybe even Saint Andrew himself, the patron saint of fishermen, who oversaw the protection and safety of our clan.  Surely it wasn’t that far for angels or saints to be on the job.  That spot, by Grandma’s house, was a little piece of heaven.

Categories: Memory Lane, Outdoors, Relationships | Tags: , , | 8 Comments

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