When i was a kid…

1960s nostalgia

 

When I was a kid, we once took a summer vacation by roping off a segment of the farmer’s cow pasture, pitching a tent, and setting up a small charcoal grill. The fishing by the river was good, but the cow patties were a bother. 

When I was a kid, we rode to Canada with a caravan of family and friends. Four or five of us kids rode in the back of Dad’s pick-up truck, lying flat on a plywood board held up by the wheel wells. A piece of jagged carpet covered the splinters. Five-gallon jugs of gasoline were stored under our plank bed. 

When I was a kid, the dark, the wood-paneled basement became Barbie-doll/G.I. Joe city. We turned the creepy shelves under the basement stairs into a country store. From acardboard box, we made a boat, a cabin, a rocket ship. We often put a grocery box on the Radio Flyer wagon and pretended to be riding an Amish buggy. My brother would push the wagon with me in it down the steep hill by the old farmhouse. My buggy had no horses to lead the way. 

Ah, the nostalgia – stories about the good old days when I was a kid fill my mind and make me laugh, even the ones that filled me with terror as a child. As an adult, I do everything I can to care for and honor those folks who filled my mind with delightful memories. As a grandparent, I do everything I work to fill my little ones with memories so they can one day look back and laugh and remember the good old days.

House on the Highway

House on the Highway was published in the 2017 summer issue of Common Ground Magazine.      When I was four years old, I lived with my mom, dad, and brother in an old rented farmhouse. A Big Dream     I have small fragments of memory from my first home,

porch neighbors

Empty Porches

Empty Porches When I turned teenager, my family moved from a house surrounded by farmland to a small community in central Pennsylvania. Oakland Mills sits on both sides of one of the two main roads that run the length of Juniata County. Its population included about 17 households and less

 

milk glass vase

The Broken Vase

It was an ordinary, nothing special dish with waves of rolling milk glass edges and glossy whatnot sitting on an antique coffee table, waiting for someone to send it flying to the hardwood floor.   My brother and I had pushed Mom to her limits that day. She was beyond

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