Monday, March 26, 2018
Some people say they don’t have memories of childhood. Not many before the age of ten. For reasons I know not, the cells of my brain hold many early memories. I’ve come upon an enjoyable pastime — writing down memories.
The compilation is not an autobiography. Nor is it a coherent journalistic report. Think of memories as bits and pieces of a large mosaic.
Today I will share memories of when I was three and four — 1941. I can identify the date more or less by contemporary events. At that time and until I am ten years old, we live in a small house along Colebrook Road, northeast of Landisville, about seven miles from the city of Lancaster.
——
Harrisburg, PA Papa takes us way above Harrisburg to the big dream highway with four lanes. He pays to drive on it. [The Pennsylvania Turnpike]
East Petersburg, PA Grandma Good’s tea. Grandma Good’s junket. Grandma Good’s victrola. Grandma Good’s blocks. Grandma Good’s stereoscope. Grandma Good’s sandbox. Grandma Good’s telephone number 2981. Ours is 2703.
Along Colebrook Road The weekly bath in the galvanized tub in the sitting room by the stove. A knock on the door. Harold Housman, the teenaged neighbor here to talk with Papa. Mama comes and whispers to turn my back. Why? “So that he doesn’t see your dinky.”
Along Colebrook Road The beacon rushes across the sky but Papa says the airport light turns slowly.
Along Colebook Road Mama takes us to Gramma Good’s so we don’t get in the way. When she brings us home, the old barn where Papa parks our car is down, altogether down. Now the house looks bare without the barn in front of it. Papa says he will make a new driveway. He will sell the barberries to Root’s Nursery and make a large lawn.
jdanielhessblog 