Postcard Memoirs

Linda J. Thomas

I’m flying to the center of my childhood. To a view that shows my old house within a silver-edged globe, a garden gazing ball reflecting the present and the past:

The Side Yard: Where my sister and I sat the day we moved in, staring across at the two girls next door. One had dark, thick hair and fair skin; the other had red curly hair and freckles. They were sitting in their side yard, staring at us. I imagine we pulled grass from the lawn. No one spoke. And then someone did.  I don’t remember who; I was only five. But that’s how I first met Mr. Coyne’s two daughters, and Mary, the youngest, became my best friend.  Today, four girls could not sit in the side yards and stare at each other. Now there’s a tall and solid wooden fence along the border of the property. The house next door has one too. Mary owns and lives in that house, her parents both passed on. Does she remember the day we met, or the day I told her I would no longer be her friend? Her infractions against the laws of friendship had piled up higher than I could bear at thirteen, so I built an imaginary fence between her house and mine.

The Back Yard: The Weeping Willow tree is gone. I knew not to walk too near that tree in my bare feet. The lawn was damp and squishy. Mr. Coyne once reported us to the Public Health Department because of that soggy section. The Weeping Willow’s roots had snaked through the leach field, disturbing the “bowels” of the earth. An official with a white shirt and tie walked around the tree, my Dad stood by with arms folded across his chest, while I watched from my bedroom window. The leach field passed inspection, and the tree stayed, but Mary’s Dad didn’t allow her to play softball in our back yard on warm summer nights after that. That tree is gone, but I remember its beauty in the summer, its perseverance in the winter. It still resides in a poem I wrote back then; a poem in which the tree cried and her tears created puddles beneath silky branches.

The Front Yard: Now I’m at the front of our Cape Cod. My Dad climbed up and down a ladder to apply a fresh coat of stain each year. I can almost see him standing back from the house, admiring the results, when I asked: “Dad, why can’t you paint the house a different color?  I’m tired of brown.” His shoulders drooped.  Today the house is no longer stained brown. It’s been painted white, purified.

Linda Thomas is a freelance writer and editor who lives in the beautiful Monadnock region of New Hampshire—if you want to know just how beautiful; google earth it.