Have you ever tried to capture a childhood memory -- that illusive remnant of an adventure softened by the shadows of time? As adults, we might wonder if those events really happened, or if they are only figments of our imagination. We might laugh now at our naiveté, but at the time, those painted carousel horses were very much alive, the pirate ship held tons of gold, and the cowboys always won. For me, there was a candy dish; but not your ordinary candy dish of course…
"Are we there yet?"
The road was bumpy, and Dad swerved to
miss a snake slithering across the gravel.
It was hot, but July is always hot in Iowa, and back in 1956, air
conditioning wasn't included on the sticker price of our Chevy station
wagon. It didn't bother me, though,
because I was seven years old. I was
tough, and not about to let hot weather stop me from enjoying the drive that
would take me to my adventure.
Bugs splattered against the
windshield, and a big grasshopper ricocheted off the rear view mirror to land
on the back seat. Dad said to get it out
of the car, but one look at those beady eyes convinced me it wouldn't hurt if
the grasshopper went with us.
Dad was taking me to my Aunt Bea's
-- a farm with horses and other animals and homemade cookies and my cousin
Craig. We would take baths in a
galvanized tub hardly big enough to sit in; we had to hand-pump water into the
kitchen sink. We played from sun-up
until Aunt Bea rang the huge dinner bell, then after meals we played some more.
At that time, there were no
convenience stores on the corners, no public swimming pools and skating rinks
or shopping at the mall every afternoon.
There were no computers, video games or cell phones; no colored TV in
every room or central air conditioning.
Instead, we had acres and acres of green grass
and blue sky in which to play; square hay bales to hide behind when playing
cowboys; a big house with a huge porch and cookies hot from the oven. Our imaginations never limited the source of
our adventures, and we didn't need a lot of toys to occupy our time. Unless, of course, you counted the dollar's
worth of plastic cowboys we bought at the local Five & Dime.
Aunt Bea had a big old farmhouse --
far too large for just the three of them, so the front rooms had been closed
off by a set of pocket doors. White
slipcovers blanketed the furniture and the draperies were always closed. Voices
echoed eerily off the chill walls and hardwood floors should anyone happen to
step into what looked like a mausoleum.
It was as though an entirely
different family lived there, but they were never home. Even so, you had to walk past the connecting
doors quietly, for it wouldn't be polite to disturb them.
"Don't say a word," my
cousin would whisper, a finger to his lips.
Of course, I believed him -- he was older than me and he lived there all
the time.
It was more fun living in the back
of the house, anyway, because there were two kitchens. In one, Aunt Bea put up summer vegetables
from the garden. There were big wooden
worktables, the pump to get water into the sink, and a big, pot-bellied
stove.
Aunt Bea made cookies in the other
kitchen. It was by the living room,
where Uncle Clair watched black & white TV and an old sidesaddle hung on
the wall. My cousin and I would lie on
the hardwood floor and play with little cars that went in a metal garage and
rolled down the ramp to the car wash.
Every day we played cowboys, hiding
behind hay bales and shooting at each other with plastic handled pistols. We'd take turns being the cowboys and bad
guys because it was only fun when there was someone to shoot at. After all, with just two of us, it would be
too easy to steal horses from imaginary outlaws. Even so, it was easy to get bored. So we would hide out and try to decide what
to do next.
We could go get something to eat or
drink. It was hot and we played
hard. Of course, we couldn't just walk
in and ask -- that would have been too simple -- so we decided to sneak in
through the front of the house.
The old weathered boards of the
porch creaked beneath our bare feet. The
screen door swayed on rusty hinges and created eerie noises that belonged to
the inky night, not to broad daylight. I
giggled and my cousin shushed me -- we couldn't dare be caught. We silently crept closer to the door, keeping
low beneath the windows. Craig turned
the handle -- a soft click and the door squeaked open, inch by noisy inch. I held my breath, sure that any second we
would be discovered. Craig pushed on the
big wooden door -- I grabbed his arm and hung on. After all, he was bigger than me and much,
much braver.
Shadows loomed gigantic across the
wood floors. Shrouded furniture turned
to ghostly shapes before our eyes and towered larger than any monster either of
us had ever seen.
"Let's go," I whimpered,
ready to forget the entire escapade.
"We can't," Craig jerked
me to a stop and pointed.
There, like a glittering crystal
crown, a candy dish perched on top of the dark wood coffee table. We stood in silent awe as it beckoned
us. Sunshine filtered through a gap in
the draperies to form a spotlight, causing the crystal to wink knowingly at us. Dust motes floated down the sunbeams and
danced around the crystal, paying homage.
We
crept on hands and knees now, our eyes wide and our hearts pounding. Any minute unbidden creatures would jump up
and screech at us from behind the white sheets.
Beasts from beneath the couch would snatch our legs and drag us,
screaming and fighting, beneath the draped edge, never to be heard from
again.
Regardless of the danger, we
slithered closer, for the candy dish proved a stronger lure than the threat of
unseen monsters.
Even as our grubby hands touched the
sparkling cut glass, we cast furtive glances over our shoulders toward the
doors that separated this section from the real
house. Craig whispered to be
careful, for we not only had to remove
the lid without letting it click against the side, but we must put it back so no one would know we had
been there.
Our adventure became more difficult
the minute Craig lifted the lid. It had
a fluted edge, and if the little curves didn't fit together just right, it
would fall off to the side and break.
Not to mention making an incredible noise.
I could hear Aunt Bea moving around
in the kitchen on the other side of the pocket doors. The dog barked outside, and a horse neighed
in the distance. My heart beat louder
than any ordinary noise, and I knew for sure she could hear us. I held my breath as I reached into the
bowl. My hand closed around the prize --
sweet, hard bits of sugar. As quietly as
we had come, we left, pulling the door softly closed behind us.
Those few seconds were as long as we
could remain quiet. With whoops of
laughter, we jumped off the porch and raced for the hay bales, falling down to
the ground only after we were safely out of sight and no one the wiser. We laughed as we ate the spoils of our
adventure, arguing already over who would lead the secret raid tomorrow.
We never questioned
the reason for a candy dish in a room no one ever entered. After a week of raids on the ghostly haunt,
we never once thought it unusual that the candy dish, sitting alone in a room
never used, was always full. After all,
it was summer on the farm, and at seven years of age, it's easy to believe in
magic.
***
If you like short stories for a change of pace, I invite you to grab a copy of “Before Tomorrow Comes” -- Can five women with tender hearts find the love they deserve before their secrets and pasts are exposed? This, and all my romance novels are available at Books we Love www.bookswelove.net.
Here’s hoping your memories are magic.
Barb Baldwin
What a precious memory, Barbara. And so well written. Thanks for sharing it and giving us a taste. Keep writing.
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