Once Upon a Reminiscing

The home sat on a lovely piece of property. It was secluded from the rest of the world in a way that few could be. The front lawn was expansive enough for a child to run full force without any sort of restraint. I was lucky enough to be that child. The property was well cared for, impeccable even without any hint of pristine. The grass was a perfect shade of green. I often thought that it was identical to the color that any self-respecting six year old would diligently search the 64 crayon box of Crayola's for when she was coloring grassy areas. The walkway winded its way from driveway to the porch with a poetic movement. When a visitor followed it to the front door; they felt as if they might be dancing down it.

Walking through the door and into the foyer, it was always apparent that the house was filled with the love of a grandparent, or in this case a great aunt.  The aroma of homemade cookies baking, greeted all visitors and virtually intoxicated the younger ones. The collectibles that lined the shelves had been gathered over several decades of happy marriage and childrearing, and begged to be touched. The hand-carved toys that my great uncle had created for his own children were now there for other children to enjoy. The cars, animals and musical instruments seemed to tell their own story to me as I played with them. Even at a young age, I was aware of the vast history that each piece had.

The kitchen was the most utilized room in the house and it exuded warmth. The walls were covered with a lovely floral print wall paper and the clean white cupboards stood out starkly against the deeper tones of the hardwood floors and hand carved table and chairs. This was the room where the adults congregated. The sounds of laughter and glee were literal music to the ear. It was also a room where children were welcomed with open arms. More of my great uncle's handiwork was visible in the miniaturized version of the kitchen table and chairs. It was well known that the bottom drawer to the right of the refrigerator was filled with kitchen utensils that were perfectly matched to the smaller hands of children. This was a room where age met youth and where the generation gap was bridged over pastries and milk.

Perhaps the most enchanting area of the property was accessible through the wooden screen door that graced the southernmost wall of the kitchen. From the perspective of a six year old, the creaky old door with it's peeling paint and rusty hinges was nothing less than a magical entrance to the fantastic, make believe world of fairy tales. I often walked through the door in my red, hooded sweatshirt as Alessandrina, and emerged on the other side as Little Red Riding Hood.

The woods behind my great aunt's house were very dense, yet not at all frightening. There were quaint paths that wound their way from pine tree to oak tree with a deliberate grace. The paths were lined with the most glorious marigolds, that seemed to brighten the woods with their own splendor and light.  Somehow, in spite of the pebbles underfoot, the walkways managed to maintain a certain softness. The trees themselves seemed to reach upward endlessly, with their branches majestically stretched up toward Heaven. It was as if they were reaching out to embrace God himself.

The sun shined brightly into the grassy area that resulted from a sudden break in the trees. Wildflowers bloomed around the perimeter of the knoll and sprang up in random patches throughout. It was the perfect place to enjoy a picnic. Rabbits scurried through brazenly, and I half expected one of them to stop and strike up a conversation with me. The only sounds that were to be heard, however, were the melodic tunes of the songbirds that nested in the trees.

At the end of the narrowly cut path was a little cottage. It was quaint and warm and I imagined Hansel and Gretel following their breadcrumb trail back to this place. In reality it was the home of a young girl named Ingrid who became my friend. Even Ingrid seemed to be right out of a fairy tale, with her long blond braids and her lederhosen inspired dress, she reminded me of Heidi of the Alps. I often envied her. She was a real life child who lived in the land where childhood tales were born. I could only count myself fortunate enough to be invited to visit from time to time.