My Old Home

While on a visit to the big city to see my youngest who flew down from the cold country up North to have a respite with a shopping spree, on the way back home we went by my old home on the Hill. It was a wet day, rain off and on, and evereything is so green this time of year, and the Rhodies are in full bloom all over, and I was sure the streets were way narrower than I remembered, we drove slowly by the house. I asked if we could stop and I would take pictures of the place for posterity. In front of the house is a triangle that divides a road that goes down hill from the narrow little street in front of the house. The Chestnut trees are huge, but the yard looked smaller, and a rhododendron by the door was enormous also. It is pink and beautiful.

As I stood there looking at the house and imagining the interior, the door opened and a young man with bare feet putting on a shirt stood there, and he said, 'hi'. I pardoned myself and just said I grew up in this house and I was taking pictures of the rhodie. He walked down the stairs, and over the grass in his bare feet, and I thought he must feel the cold. He said, 'hey, I grew up in this house also.' He gave me his name and asked me mine, and then a siamese cat came mewing out towards us. I said we had cats and dogs in this house, and he said, 'well, we are keeping up the tradition'. I told hims some little reminiscent stories, took a couple more pictures, and he said, 'my parents left for Europe, but if you come back down this was again, knock on the door cause I think my parents would like to meet you and here about when you lived here.' I said that I would, and left.

As a small girl, the yard was huge, and the streets wide, and the house huge, and it is now in perspective, but I remember every room in that house. I told the young man that my Dad hated the pigeons that roosted over his bedroom window, and was always at war with them. He said his Dad did the same thing. I just might go back!