Good Times by Susan L.

  The closer I get to the Nova Scotia trip, more childhood experiences are being brought to mind. Childhood friends are among them. It has me wondering whatever became of them.
  Amber, who's dad would take us to their cottage for the weekend. Lying in the back of the station wagon on the way home and looking up through the window at a gazillion stars. That was before seatbelt laws.
  They had a fire in their kitchen. Her little, two year old sister "telling" me all about it by pointing where the fire had been and chattering away in a language only Amber was able to translate.
  Camping. My dad had a flag pole to hang the Nova Scotia flag from wherever we went. There was a huge decal on the side of the trailer as well just in case someone missed the flag.
  One of his favorite camping pastimes was carving wooden matchsticks. He'd use them and a matchbox to make miniature beds that would captivate my imagination for hours.
  A huge bag of candy mysteriously appeared on his workbench in the garage. He wouldn't let us eat them until he found out where they'd come from. It took for-ev-er! They'd been left by the neighbour who always had a different car in his driveway. The candies were hard but when the centre was reached, they'd fizz, tickling my tongue.
  Cardboard toad mansions. Catching butterflies. Catching tadpoles. Growing caterpillars. Worm "farming" in a broken aquarium. Worm killing is more like it. They had a tendency of drying out. Oh, dear.
  Roaming the neighbourhood. The boys playing with GI Joes and having battles. Tagging along with my horses and covered wagon to carry the supplies they needed.
  Fishing. Tons of memories. Sitting on a dock with a stick, some string, a safety pin and a bit of hotdog. Fine tackle that was. The water was so clear that it was possible to hit a small flounder on the head with the hot dog. It never took the bait.
  A little friend who used to call, "Can Foosan come out and play?"
  My grandmother giving me a very special necklace. At seven, I was old enough to appreciate it. It had been her engagement gift. The gold chain was as fine as hair. A tiny pearl hung from the tear drop shaped, beautifully filigreed pendant. The first time I wore it was to show my organ teacher who lived close enough that I could walk to lessons on my own.
  Seeing that same grandmother reading the Bible in her room. She always knelt, with the Bible on the bed. I tried, once, to get her to conspire with me to tell my mom I'd practiced like I'd been told to. When mom asked if I had, she sat there quietly, waiting to see what happened. I couldn't lie in front of her. I hadn't.
  There was an old farmhouse on the street. It was probably original to the land that had been subdivided to create the area where I lived. According to childhood lore, it was haunted. Of course!
  It's amazing what comes to mind and how clear these memories are. It was, ahem, a long time ago.
  "But as many as received HIm, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name: who were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God." Jn 1:12-13