We raised our children in a four level split home at the mouth of a canyon in Northern Utah. It was in many ways a marvelous place to raise our four little ones... in others, not so great. It wasn't a neighborhood that was friendly toward kids. But we backed up against orchards and mountains that seemed to be our private domain. We were surrounded by open fields, were walking distance to creeks and ponds full of pollywogs.
The house itself was easy to live in. Roomy and open, with room to hide and read in peace. It had nothing but windows and doors on the east side that opened out to flower gardens, a fire pit in the backyard, and the canyon yawning wide just beyond the border of the orchard.
Lots of memories were made there. Toasting marshmallows around the firepit with friends who sang and talked with our kids into the wee small hours as their hopes for the future mingled with sparks from the open flames... sleeping out under shooting stars on the trampoline with only the sound of the crickets and our stories. Walks through the orchard with my daughter and our dogs, sitting on a cement slab among the cherry trees day dreaming.
There were birthday parties and family re-unions and Christmas trees that took up a third of the parlour. There were midnight runs through the sprinklers, and hockey games in the cul de sac, and banana splits for breakfast. There were Easter baskets to be found at the end of yards and yards of string woven throughout the house. We sat in the sun in front of the french doors during the summer reading from a stack of books from the library shelves. We sat huddled under blankets on the heat vents in the parlour during the winter months...talking and warming ourselves with the blowing heat and each others laughter.
We sold this family home to our son a fews years back... I can't remember if it was three or four. I went to visit a week or so ago and walked into that parlour. I grabbed a blanket and sat on the heater and let my mind drift back in time. Gone are the sounds of the incessant chatter about school, football games, dates, and wedding plans. Gone are the times when we treated hurts from tummy aches to heartaches, and kissed and cuddled the way to feeling better... Only the walls echoed back the voices of that era. It was a haunting visit.
We all take such joy seeing our children grow into adulthood. Yet, there are those moments when our arms ache with longing to hold them on our lap one more time. I walked into my son's room one night while visiting, and watched him sleep. I reached out to touch his cheek and tried to remember the little boy who slept in that house so many years ago. He's grown into a fine young man with a son of his own, now. The song is right... I turned around, and all three of my boys were young men, capable young men, who had moved into their own lives. I can't hear them run through the back door bursting with excitement at some adventure or escapade to tell me about. I can't tuck them in at night and sing, "I Found a Friend" softly, and always just slightly off tune...and have them beg me to sing it again. But, I remember...
On my last stay up north, I sat in my daughters kitchen and watched her prepare a meal for her three sons. I tried to recall the tiny girl of five or six making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich all by herself. She was so proud. Just as I am now proud. I love the woman she has become... but, I long for the little girl she once was. I miss the girl of sixteen, seventeen, nineteen and twenty who took so many precious walks among the apple blossoms with me.
Memory is a savoury thing, to taste with relish, and dwell on with delight. Memories also often bring an aching longing for just one more day setting helium filled balloons free to soar on their own. And no, the analogy, the irony, is not lost on me.
