childhood memories: the upstairs deck
Until I was about age nine, my family and I lived in this beautiful two-storied house with an incredible view. The view allowed my family to watch a storm coming in for miles and miles away from our upstairs deck. We'd see a dark cloud and watch it's progress, steadily drawing closer over the rolling landscape of hills and even the tiny glimmer of lake that we could see from a certain part of the deck. My sister and I would stay outside as long as we could, daring each other to be brave and stay on the deck even as the thunder got louder and the lightning flashing in the clouds became more visible, counting the seconds between the flash and the boom until it was more than we could stand, finally rushing inside and peering out at the storm through the large glass sliding doors of my parent's bedroom.
I remember one day in particular when my Dad and I were on the deck looking out at the view, and we both agreed how wonderful it would be to just take off with a packs on our backs and explore those rolling hillsides. To have an adventure. I think that I added that we could take my red wagon and fill it with supplies, but my Dad smiled and said that a backpack would be enough. Growing up, I always knew that my Dad and I had similar hearts; a heart with a whisper of wanderlust, a steady hopefullness, and maybe a slight ability to see adventure in even the small everyday things.
I remember how my Mom had a simple clothes line on the deck for hanging laundry, and one evening when she was taking it in, she reached inside the bag where she kept the clothes pins, and discovered a handful of sticks and bark and other tidbits: the makings of a nest. I remember how sad she was for the poor bird who had thought to have found such a tidy place to make her nest only to have her work accidenlty destroyed. It wouldn't have been a peaceful place for the bird to raise a family, in any case: the deck was a favorite place to play for my siblings and I.
One of my favorite memories of the upstairs deck was the hanging swing that my Dad built. It was the perfect place to sit and talk or look out over the view, gently rocking and swaying in my Dad's sturdy but lovely swing. This, however, was not what my siblings and I usually used it for. I will always remember how we would play Magic Merry-Go-Round: we would get on, and then we would be begin to swing, but not so very gently. Working together, we would gradually pick up speed until the swing was moving back and forth at a reckless pace, like a metronome gone wild. The speed was the magical part, for it allowed us to travel anywhere. When we let the swinging stop, we would be in another land or another time. How we came up with the name Magic Merry-Go-Round, instead of Magic Swing, I'm not sure. I only know that my sister and I LOVED merry-go-rounds, so it was probably that we could make the imaginary magical invention even more fantastic by combining something we loved with something we loved to dream about. We would step off of the swing with wonder, describing our surroundings to each other, though usually not for very long. Soon we would be back on the swing, careening onward to a new place, or simply back home if that's what time called for. I'm surprised that the swing never became unbolted from the ceiling, with how roughly and thoroughly we played on it. I remember my parents warnings to not swing too hard, which we would obey and then "forget" in our enthusiasm. It was the best toy, because we made it into a toy; we made it into so much more than it actually was or was intended to be. When it was the Magic Merry-Go-Round, or any other number of things such as a pirate ship or an airplane, it was all ours - anything we wanted it to be - and that's what made it so amazing.
I remember one day in particular when my Dad and I were on the deck looking out at the view, and we both agreed how wonderful it would be to just take off with a packs on our backs and explore those rolling hillsides. To have an adventure. I think that I added that we could take my red wagon and fill it with supplies, but my Dad smiled and said that a backpack would be enough. Growing up, I always knew that my Dad and I had similar hearts; a heart with a whisper of wanderlust, a steady hopefullness, and maybe a slight ability to see adventure in even the small everyday things.
I remember how my Mom had a simple clothes line on the deck for hanging laundry, and one evening when she was taking it in, she reached inside the bag where she kept the clothes pins, and discovered a handful of sticks and bark and other tidbits: the makings of a nest. I remember how sad she was for the poor bird who had thought to have found such a tidy place to make her nest only to have her work accidenlty destroyed. It wouldn't have been a peaceful place for the bird to raise a family, in any case: the deck was a favorite place to play for my siblings and I.
One of my favorite memories of the upstairs deck was the hanging swing that my Dad built. It was the perfect place to sit and talk or look out over the view, gently rocking and swaying in my Dad's sturdy but lovely swing. This, however, was not what my siblings and I usually used it for. I will always remember how we would play Magic Merry-Go-Round: we would get on, and then we would be begin to swing, but not so very gently. Working together, we would gradually pick up speed until the swing was moving back and forth at a reckless pace, like a metronome gone wild. The speed was the magical part, for it allowed us to travel anywhere. When we let the swinging stop, we would be in another land or another time. How we came up with the name Magic Merry-Go-Round, instead of Magic Swing, I'm not sure. I only know that my sister and I LOVED merry-go-rounds, so it was probably that we could make the imaginary magical invention even more fantastic by combining something we loved with something we loved to dream about. We would step off of the swing with wonder, describing our surroundings to each other, though usually not for very long. Soon we would be back on the swing, careening onward to a new place, or simply back home if that's what time called for. I'm surprised that the swing never became unbolted from the ceiling, with how roughly and thoroughly we played on it. I remember my parents warnings to not swing too hard, which we would obey and then "forget" in our enthusiasm. It was the best toy, because we made it into a toy; we made it into so much more than it actually was or was intended to be. When it was the Magic Merry-Go-Round, or any other number of things such as a pirate ship or an airplane, it was all ours - anything we wanted it to be - and that's what made it so amazing.
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