We had no central air. The upstairs had baseboard heaters, and we had a lone window air conditioner downstairs. On the sultry August nights, I'd prop open both of my bedroom windows and lie on top of the bedcovers, listening to the frogs, the outside laughter, and eventually, the crunch of the gravel as my parents' late-night guests would venture home.
In the winter I remember sledding down huge (at least I thought they were) mountains of snow and losing electricity. I remember our mailman leaving four Tootsie Rolls in the mailbox, one for each kid. I remember the sweet smell of wood smoke in the living room, where we had a black wood stove resting on bricks in the corner. I remember sitting in the narrow stairway on Christmas mornings until we got the "all clear" from Mom and Dad that yes, Santa did remember us again that year.
Recently I posted this picture on Facebook, and one of my childhood friends and neighbors commented that she always thought we were rich because we had two bathrooms and a VCR. The truth is that our parents struggled to provide for us as much as any other parents, that we grew our own food in the garden, that we used coupons, and we walked beans for extra money. But yes, indeed, we were rich (and thank you for reminding me) because being rich transcends how much money is in the checking account.
In the winter I remember sledding down huge (at least I thought they were) mountains of snow and losing electricity. I remember our mailman leaving four Tootsie Rolls in the mailbox, one for each kid. I remember the sweet smell of wood smoke in the living room, where we had a black wood stove resting on bricks in the corner. I remember sitting in the narrow stairway on Christmas mornings until we got the "all clear" from Mom and Dad that yes, Santa did remember us again that year.
Recently I posted this picture on Facebook, and one of my childhood friends and neighbors commented that she always thought we were rich because we had two bathrooms and a VCR. The truth is that our parents struggled to provide for us as much as any other parents, that we grew our own food in the garden, that we used coupons, and we walked beans for extra money. But yes, indeed, we were rich (and thank you for reminding me) because being rich transcends how much money is in the checking account.
Those were the days when home wasn't just a sanctuary. Home was an open door, a place where friends and neighbors were always welcome. Home was a place to be, not just a place to sleep between more important activities. To this day, I feel this breathe-out-a-long-sigh relief when I cross over the threshold of my home, and I attribute it to the safety I felt in this house and with my family from long ago.