So many times I cross paths with items I recall from my youth. It is with disbelief that I find these items are designated as vintage. Usually seeing them brings a smile but every so often I find tears forming. I am struck by the fact that beyond seeing something tangible from years ago, they are now accompanied solely by my memories. I grew up in an era that there were no phones to capture pictures or videos. Times like this can trigger a feeling of homesickness for my childhood, now just a memory from long ago. I miss the big rambling brick house, surrounded by maple trees that sheltered our three generations. More than that, I miss the people and the love that existed under its roof.

Our home was hot in the summer and chilly in the winter. We lived there without the benefit of air conditioning. Once released from school for the summer I would spend much of my time reading upon one of the many porches that surrounded our home. I would also enjoy sitting on a porch swing that our father actually fashioned into a patio swing with the construction of a metal frame. It was placed on the concrete patio that he created incorporating the landscape. Opposite the swing, a planter was placed. It was formed from a barrel, cut in half. Every year our father would plant coleus. I was not impressed. I always thought regular flowers would have been more attractive than the red, green and yellow foliage. Now I smile and think of him as I plant coleus in the flower beds found in my shady back yard. While I might have been dissatisfied with the choice of landscaping, our grandfather would be toiling in our large garden out back. His choice of uniform for such a chore was a straw hat, sleeveless undershirt and a handkerchief tied around his neck. He would lay out these pristine rows of vegetables and we would enjoy the bounty of his efforts. Days loomed long and endless in my mind as a child.

Days would come to an end and summer nights would find us, sitting in the dark, on the patio. The cooler night temperatures were a welcome change when they came but heat and humidity often seemed to be a constant. When we would turn in for the evening, the window fan in the stair landing was our only source of relief. Each of us would open a bedroom window, but not fully. A door stop of sorts would be placed at our doors to keep them ajar and to allow for the movement of air. The fan would be set to pull air through the house and the smaller openings to the bedrooms ensured everyone would benefit. At some point, during the night or early morning, the fan would reach the end of the set timer and it would shut off. The sudden loss of movement of the air and the quietness would be felt by all of us. Either our mother or father would get up, cross over the landing, and turn the fan back on. It was a ritual we knew well every summer night.

Those summer days would wind down and bring the season of autumn. All those magnificent maple trees would shed their leaves and we were tasked with raking. We would always make use of the large canvas laundry cart that our grandfather brought with him when he moved in with us. I’m not sure what lead to the decisions of which items and furniture would be brought from Philadelphia. He had once owned a laundry business and I recall the basement housed an unused press. We found the laundry cart was indispensable in capturing those leaves and transporting them to the compost pile. Playing in the leaves would, in time, become playing in the snow. There was shoveling and sledding in equal portions. Our home would transform at Christmas time. A large lit plastic Santa head would be hung for all to enjoy as they passed the house. Our stockings were hung on a hanger on the back of the closet door in the TV room. We had no fireplace and that was as good as any place to display them. I don’t recall anyone ever asking how Santa found his way into our home. There was always joy on Christmas morning as Santa never disappointed.

In a blink of an eye spring would be upon us. Days would pass, seasons would change and years slipped away. Sounds are the backdrop to the memories of those days. The sound of a train passing less than a mile away, the chain covered tires on a snowy road, and the voices, now forever silent. I recall our grandfather saying he chose to speak English as he was an American. He was indeed, but one who never lost his Italian accent. Our father’s speech would match his pipe smoking tradition, one that was slow and deliberate. He might have left the red Georgia clay behind but his soft southern drawl remained. When we sought our mother, she could be found in the kitchen, outfitted in her cobbler apron and humming as she cooked and baked. Thinking about it now, she had a slight nasal quality to her speech but it is one that I would be overjoyed to hear again. I miss those days, those ordinary, mundane days. Life will always offer special moments but it is the regular day to day activities that consume our time. Don’t blink, they pass so quickly. Pay attention and hope that homesickness doesn’t have a reason to often come visit your doorstep.