Against one wall of the living room of our
Central Maine saltbox style house sat the piano that my mother, never having
had a lesson, played. The times I’m currently recalling are the years of my
first remembering, the years including my ages 2-8, the World War 2 years, when
we lived in Garland, a typical New England village.
In spring, kids got out last year’s riding
toys – bicycles, tricycles, scooters, etc. – from barns and sheds, tried our
growing bodies on them for size, hoping they’d fit for another year of riding
around the neighborhood.
In summer, being told by the owner of one
of the two general stores, that my first-of-the-season-taste of peach ice cream
was available instead of my always-favorite vanilla was a welcome, yet
different version of “living where everybody knows your name.” Even though I
was just a youngster, they knew I’d love that first taste of the peach ice
cream. And, about the vanilla: was it REALLY better, more flavorful, in those
days, or have my taste buds, like so many other of my body parts, lost
something in the aging processes of the additional
“three-score-plus-ten-years”?
Fall of each year brought not only
gorgeous colors throughout the whole area but also right into our semi-circular
driveway and side yard under the line-up of maple trees that edged the outer
side of our driveway. Once those leaves fell, kids and dogs had high piles in
which to jump and play.
Once the leaves had fallen, along came
chilly rains and soon after, the snows that during those years, fell in
earnest. Most years, we truly had a white Christmas as sung about so often by
Bing Crosby on the radio in the aforementioned living room. We also had some
sheet music on the piano. My brother, Kent, and I each had our own: his was
“The Trolley Song” with Judy Garland and mine was “White Christmas.” As I
recall, the front cover of mine was County Blue with a snow scene all done in
silhouette that included a New England country church building with a steeple.
Though I was young, and before I was able
to read, I knew the words to White Christmas, likely from not only having heard
Bing Crosby’s rendition, but also because of my mother's frequent repeats of appealing songs, I recall feeling a sadness for the person who was away from, and “longing to be
up north.” I felt no desire to be where the singer was, only compassion for
their being alone, away from loved ones. (Thinking back, it’s likely I related
it to my US Navy brothers not being able to be home.)
I also had a strong reaction as to WHY
anyone would wait until “December, the 24th”to write Christmas
cards! Even I knew there was no way those cards were going out in that day’s
mail and they certainly weren’t going to make it “up north” for Christmas! Well,
guess where I am and what I’ve found myself doing this year! “Oh, Me! Oh, My!” as my daddy used to say.
It seems we’ve come full circle not only
from the beginning of this message but also to the fulfilling of these words,
“It’s December, the 24th . . .”
Enjoy every minute! ~ Marilyn Sue 12-24-2014
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