In Days Gone By

Looking back, as a child, my home was a large house on a cobble stone terrace in the city. It was near the ocean and there were many days of smelling the salt in the air, and hearing it's crashing waves from our open windows. There were places to play like the little storage area under the stairs or in back of my bedroom closet where I found, a little mouse hole. Some days, I'd crawl into my closet, to take another peek. I never did see any movement. The fire place in the dining room was well used. It's mantle of carved wood, almost reddish in color, would always hold special items such as a Christmas village. On Sunday mornings, my father would sit at the table, near the crackling fire, reading the Sunday news, drinking his coffee. The record player would play album after album. A Christmas tree, top heavy with more tinsel then pine needles, would stand in it's place by the bay window, and Santa always was generous. Presents seemed to flow from under the tree to near the middle of the room. There were many fine memories shared of this home. My room was shared with my sister. She was 11 years older than I and we were not close back then. She was dating and I was still playing with dolls. We dared not to place any of our items upon each other's bed, as I learned. Upon turning on the light to enter my room one night, I about fainted to find someone staring right at me, eye to eye and their eyes even lit up. My walking doll, which was left on my sister's bed, was stood in the barrel just inside the bedroom door. We laugh of this today. I loved to play in my brother's room. My father had build his desk and closet, with all the shelves to store things in. It was spray painted with bumpy type paint, a greenish color. He had bunk beds and we'd have the best wrestling matches. Was in those matches, I would learn the "scissor's hold" and I'd scream like crazy! I'd sleep on the top bunk, many nights. I remember a small, stained glass window just above this top bunk, which opened by a small latch. I'd always open it, and stare out into the night sky, looking at the stars, the moon, and I'd say my prayers which consisted mostly of my pleading to be kept safe through the night and that the boogie man did not get me. The room could be scarey from the top bunk. In the basement, my father had a work shop. The sound of his table saw would be heard zipping through wood often. The basement walls were of large rocks, its floor dirt and large puddles would form from heavy rains or melting snow. I loved to play down there; riding my bike through the puddles. My father built my playhouse there, which he assembled outside in the small yard later. A little house that was enjoyed for years. We loved to watch the fierce waves during a storm, smashing against the sea wall before breaking open. Some forcefully crashing onto the street, while part would roll back to meet yet another. Storms seemed more fierce back then. Snow storms were true storms, the kind that closed schools for days and sledding and tunnels made of snow would last til near the end of spring. Winters don't seem as cruel or as kind, anymore. Snow storms don't seem to leave as much to play in. The cobblestone street had been paved when my sister, brother and I went back to see this house again, years later. Remembering the days gone by and trying to see it all again, through the eyes of a child. Yet now, it all seemed smaller. As the snow storms seem less than what they were. Things change; our perceptions and dreams. The days that have gone by, never fully do. They live on in our minds and our hearts. They live on in our words to other's and they are a part of who we are.