General Chat

Ann thanks for sharing this with us, it is a lovely memory, for you to keep,
I would have loved such a memory......


Love Jean x

Ann,
That is absolutely beautiful.
What a lovely piece to have written, and how it must bring back some wonderful memories for you, aswell as being a little tinged with sadness.

K

I am smiling as well as having a little tear reading this.Brought back a few memories.
It was lovely Ann.
Jane x

Thanks for your memories Ann,they remind me so much of my childhood days,the seasons coming and going.
My Dad made wooden toys, I've always loved the smell of wood & varnish.He also could grow anything in his garden and Mam would bake fruit tarts & make jam/chutneys.

When we moved into our new house in 1948 I well remember the smells of new wood,& freshly plastered walls,after living previously in a very old house everything seemed exciting to we young children.
My Sister and her OH are having a house built,I went to see it recently and as soon as I stepped through the front door I was transported back to our childhood home again.

Thanks for this thread Ann,as the song says......"Thanks for the Memories" :O))

Mau xxx

Aw Ann, that was beautiful...... thank you for sharing it with us.

Love

Daff xxxxx

Ah Ann....that is very beautiful but sad as well. How lucky you are to have such wonderful memories of your childhoold. BCXXX

The bungalow is empty now, a shell, bricks and mortar, full of furniture and the accumulation of diverse artifacts assembled during sixty years of family life, empty of human warmth, love and laughter that was once there. This is the home where security and succour were provided to us, the children of the family. Bereft of people, silence where once was noise, sadness where once was happiness.
But, is it really empty? Stop a moment and listen, can’t you hear what I can hear? Behind the solitary sound of my footsteps, all around me are the echoes, the voices of the past. Looking out of the kitchen window I see in my mind a long hot summer, it is the school holidays. I hear children playing in the garden and see again the games they play. The home made tent, canvas over a step ladder, and a picnic on the lawn. The adults are lazing in deckchairs, I hear the busy hum of bees and feel the sun warm on my face. No computers to play on then, no television but I would be looking forward to something like Ballet shoes on children’s hour at five o’clock on the wireless.
In the eyes of the child that I was the garden is huge, goes on forever. The four fruit trees at the end of the garden become an orchard, the lawns offer not just a place to play but a harvest of daisies with which to fashion garlands, daisy chains for our necks, and clover from which to suck the honey. And the rose bushes offer their petals, hot from the sun, for the production of the sweetest perfume ever smelled. I imagine myself too hot in the sun and I seek cool refuge in the garden shed where memory evokes the smells of linseed oil, putty and wood shavings, and the sound of my Dad as he fashions something for the house or for us his daughters out of wood. The tools still hang there in neat order, covered in cobwebs now, still sharpened, still clean but no longer used.
Now my thoughts turn to winter, days spent indoors, sitting in the kitchen in front of the fire, never in the ‘front’ room unless it is Christmas. My Mother’s footsteps trip trot up and down the long hall as she bustles about her housework, everything clean and sparkling, smells of polish and cooking, Dad home for lunch at 12.30pm, maybe a casserole or a steak and kidney pie, Mum made lovely pastry. Christmas, a tall real tree in the ‘front’ room, smells of pine, decorations in the kitchen/living room, ‘front’ room and all down the hall, strings of cards, carols on the wireless, fire in the front room and the kitchen, smells of mince pies, cake and Christmas pudding, rustling of paper. “If you don’t go to sleep Father Christmas wont come”. But he does, always, bulging pillowcase, Christmas dinner, Christmas tea, love, warmth, laughter. Boxing day, family parties with all the relatives coming to a big tea, candles lit on the table, more laughter.
I remember quiet Sundays, no playing outside, Sunday School, learn the weekly text, Church, no knitting , read a book, best clothes. Teenage tantrums, arguments, boyfriends invited home for tea, made welcome. Lots of firsts happened in this bungalow, first home for the parents, first child, first steps taken by both daughters, first schools, first loves, excitement as each daughter left the house as a bride with proud Father to give them away. First grandchildren to visit and first Great Grandchildren, followed by all the Grandchildren and Great grandchildren who were so welcome in this family home.
Sadness as the Mother of the home sadly dies leaving the Father alone and lonely. Loneliness that continues for a few years, a stroke, a struggle for independence but always a warm welcome, love and laughter when we visit. The bungalow is empty now, its master needing to be cared for after years of caring for his family. But, while there are generations who remember, the family home is still there, it may be cared for by a new family but it is in our minds and in our hearts, memories cannot be erased.

When my Father went into a residential home and we had to clear his bungalow to sell it I wrote the following after spending a day in the empty home. I have just found it and thought I would share it