We drank water from a hose and we lived.
We stayed outside until dinnertime and we never ran out of things to do.
We rode our bikes wherever we wanted to go, without a helmet.
We played jump rope, hide and seek, and we climbed trees; well some of us climbed trees.

We liked to swing so high on swing sets the metal pole actually came out of the ground.
We never wore seat belts and often sat three across the large bench seat in the front.
Our only parental warning was, don’t take any candy from strangers.
If you did something wrong, your mother knew about it before you even got home.

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I could not get my wedding ring off.
My wedding ring that has been on my hand for thirty-three years.
I have long, thin fingers, but my problem is my knuckles.
They have always been the reason I need to go up a size in a ring.

I always keep my gold wedding band on my hand.
It is a part of me; without it, my hand feels empty.
I take off my anniversary ring and my mother’s ring whenever I come home.
However that gold band has been a permanent part of my hand.

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Tucked away in our basement is a memory.
It is a memory that is left on the wall much like an ancient hieroglyph.
Well, not quite that old.
It is a memory that signifies a season of life.

When my children were little, they enjoyed playing in the family room.
Chairs and blankets strategically placed made the best forts.
Fold-able playhouses were set up so they could play near me.
I would feign confusion as they hid in the playhouse; You were just here a minute ago.

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When my husband cannot find something in the kitchen cabinet, I know what he will say.
Did you move things around?
The question is always the same.
The answer is always the same: No, everything is in the same place.

My husband does not know where things are in the kitchen.
We have lived in this house for eighteen years and the kitchen organization is the same.
He is not in and out of the cabinets as much as I am.
He truly does not know where things are, except for the things he uses everyday.

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I waited in the doctor’s office for quite a while.
I have had a cold and cough since last week that needed attention.
It seemed as if everyone in the waiting room had the same thing.
At least for me, it ended up being allergies.

The pollen count is extremely high, I was told.
How can simple tree pollen and grass pollen and all sorts of pollen be so problematic?
How can the trees budding and the grass growing cause me to lose my voice?
I left the office with more knowledge than when I entered.

I forgot to bring a book with me, so I people watched as I waited.

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It was late fall when one of my children got a blanket from inside the armoire.
As they pulled out the particular blanket they wanted, I heard laughter.
Well, look at that!
I guess I found the last egg!

Sure enough, hidden in the folds of the blanket was the last remaining plastic egg.
It was bright pink and it had defied any attempts at being found.
You see the indoor egg hunt was a tradition in their growing up years.
They always liked having egg hunts inside the house long after Easter had passed.

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Important work was happening on the rug in my family room.
Math was being studied.
Battles were being fought.
Far-away places were being visited.

Magnetic properties were being discovered.
Architecture was inevitably practiced.
Engineering was beginning to be understood.
Artistic endeavors were being realized.

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After a few days of mild weather, I had to bundle up when I went for my walk.
My coat was zipped up to my chin.
I wore my hood with a scarf wrapped around to hold it in place.
Gloves that usually remain in my pocket were now on my hands.

I saw my neighbor getting his newspaper.
I think we’re going to get some snow.
Snow is in the forecast.
A dusting to possibly three inches of powdery snow is expected overnight.

A change in the weather.

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To many it looks like an ordinary house.
For those who have experienced its charm, it is much more.
On the website, the tagline says: Serving the community since 1876.
It has served my family well through the years.

This building is part of our story.
It is one of those places that you remember fondly.
It is a place where we spent countless hours.
It is the neighborhood library.

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