Open Writing

The sun was shining and the sky was blue, but a cold breeze bit through my gloves. Even so, I was determined that today was going to be nostalgia day for me. The birds were singing merrily as I went up the street with my daughter Lesley. We were heading to see the house and area where I was brought up. It is only ten minutes from where I now live. As we went along, I pointed out the places that I used to frequent as a youngster.

In Upper Rushton Road I pointed out where all my friends used to live. To my surprise there was hardly any change. The old red brick houses were the same, though they had new doors.

We visited the shopping area where I used to hang out with my friends. I pointed out the old sweet shop, “That was old Thorpey’s place,'' I informed Lesley.

“You still remember his name?” she asked, surprised.

“Oh yes,” I replied, “I used to be a paperboy.''

As I reminisced a workman removed some of the timber from the front of the building to reveal the original facia. And there was the sign: F. Thorpe.

We arrived at Mond Ave, the place of many memories, where I lived as a child. My aunt Chrissie looked after us. She brought me and my three brothers and one sister up as best she could. This was the place where I had lots of laughter and sadness.

I was surprised at how little the house had changed in more than 40 years. The garden was the same, a small square of lawn at the front surrounded by a long large hedgerow. The back garden was exactly as I remembered it, including the original shed! That shed was where I hid from my brothers after firing paper pellets at them. The shed I sometimes used as a castle, repelling all attempts by my brother Roy to occupy it. This was my command post during games of war; the place where I hid after getting into trouble with my parents.

I couldn’t believe that after forty years the shed was still there!

As I looked around the garden, I heard children’s laughter and saw in my mind's eye the old RAF rubber dinghy that my father had brought home for us. I could see my brothers and sister, playing and enjoying themselves in that water- filled dinghy and I could see my father smiling as he sat on the grass, watching. I saw my brother Eddie as he ran over to the old oak tree and climbed onto the first branch. Everyone could see that he was intending to jump into the dinghy, but I saw my father as he ordered Eddie to come down before he got hurt. In our neighbour’s garden were three children, looking on enviously. My father waved them over to join us in the water.

Myy stepmother sat on a wooden chair, reading a newspaper. Every so often she lifted her eyes from the paper to watch our antics.

Myy dear Aunt Chrissie came out, carrying a tray of freshly-made lemonade which she set down on a small wooden table. Aunt Chrissie turned towards me with a huge smile on her face. She waved to me. Looking around, I saw that everyone else in the garden was waving.

Lifting my right arm, I waved back.

“Who are you waving at?” asked Lesley.

“I’m waving at my memories,” I replied. “I’m waving at my memories.”

If you think my stories are true, then they probably are.

If you think my stories are fiction, then just relax and enjoy the tales.

Meet Mike and read some great stories
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/mike.htm

Mike's "first hand" disability access reviews
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/disabacc.htm