Have you ever tried to capture a childhood memory -- that illusive remnant of an adventure softened by the shadows of time? We all have recollections of ghost stories around a campfire and a marvelously mystical childhood.
As adults, we might wonder if these 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.
And the candy dish? Well, the candy dish was pure magic. . .
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.
I turned back to the front and asked, "Are we there yet?"
Dad was taking me to my Aunt Bea's -- a farm with horses and animals and home made cookies and my cousin Craig. We took baths in a galvanized tub hardly big enough to sit in; we hand-pumped 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 minibikes or skateboards; no colored TV in every room or video rentals or arcades 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 alot 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 farm house -- far too large for just the three of them, so the front rooms had been closed off. White slip covers blanketed the furniture; 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 bigger 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 work tables and 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 watched TV and an old sidesaddle hung on the wall. My cousin and I would lay on the hardwood floor and play with little cars that went in a metal garage and rolled down the ramp to the car wash.
We'd sleep at night in bunk beds, in a bedroom off the kitchen. It would be dark and spooky but that was all right. What fun is it being seven if you can't scare each other with ghost stories?
But the back of the house didn't have the candy dish.
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 into the front of the house and get candy from the dish.
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 in gigantic shapes 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.
It perched like a royal crown on top of the dark wood coffee table. We stood in silent awe as it beckoned us. Sunshine filtered through the windows 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 which 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 the kitchen, right on the other side of the 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 be 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. Later, 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.
Really cute memory
ReplyDeleteLovely memory. Thanks for sharing.
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