A/N: Not in any way connected to history just a little something I made up. (:
I still remember my childhood house. Some grow up to be adults and forget all about their life as a young one. Not me. I can still distinctly look back on every detail. 142 Willow Road. Two dirt streets down from the blacksmith, whose name was Tom. He used to make me these tiny salt spoons to give to my mother. Any scraps of metal he didn't need went into little creations for me, and all the other children. I still have my collection, in a box which I can't recall where I left it last.
My name has been, and always will be 'Megan' but when we lived in my old house, I was called Meg. By my friends and my family.
Every day I would walk home with Iris, a girl with dark skin and hair. Her eyes, however, were bright green. She grew up to be a real heartbreaker and she was my best friend.
I also had a brother, Will, who when he chopped down his first tree, came to me crying. We were running low on firewood and Papa had told him to take his hatchet out and cut some logs, but he swore he had seen a bird fall out of the tree. Will had always cared for animal life a great deal, and I was his older sister. Seeing how distressed he was I came and helped him look.
We did find the bird, in fact, we found an entire bird's nest. Robins. I was quite adept at climbing trees back then, so we found a nearby oak, which I scaled (something I could never accomplish now) and gently wedged the bundle of sticks back between two 'Y' branches. Will, in that time, had managed to dig up some worms and place them in the nest as an apology.
We waited and watched until a full-grown Robin returned and attended to its children. This was just one of the many adventures I had with him.
Our home was a small cottage on the edge of the village. White walls, peeling on the outside. The front yard's garden beds filled with herbs and tomatoes, for that was all my mother could manage to grow. Inside was our small kitchen. Black and white checkered floor which remained smooth and cold every morning when we came down for breakfast. A simple counter, with cupboards all throughout the whole construction of the room. In the living room, we had one couch and two armchairs. In the left-hand corner was our pot-belly stove, the top was flat and just wide enough to hold a kettle.
At night Mama would make tea with the dry herbs and me and Will would sit in the living room and listen to Papa tell us stories.
Most of them were fairy tales. When he ran out though, he would tell us real stories of his time in Norway. He was Norwegian and had lived there most of his life. The rosy glow of the fire and the hot herb water (it really wasn't tea, but still good all the same) seduced my eyes to droop by that time, and my brother and I would go up the narrow set of stairs to our room.
As I got older, I would have to start ducking as I went up them. The stairs led to the attic bedroom which we had renovated. It was a room we shared and believe you me, when we 'split' it, we both took it literally. There was the problem of the door. It was technically on HIS side, but how else was I supposed to get out? Long and the short of it was I used the window for an absurd amount of time... I got back at him though. During all summer months, our bedroom became unbearably hot. The window was on my side, however, and I'm sorry to say I was a very vengeful child, so my brother would beg me to open the window and I refused, killing myself in the process along with him, but it was worth it to me.
Yes, that was just the way it was.
My favorite bit, I think, out of all growing up, was the town dances. It would start while the sky was only just darkening. The bakers would bring out the food. The children would giggle and chase each other. Adults would laugh. The sky would grow dark and then the dancing began. Anyone who could play an instrument was shoved onto the stage. I always ran around with my friends. We played this game, It was some version of tag, but you had to hide under the tables. Every other minute an adult would tell us off, only to have no effect. We would climb the roofs of nearby houses, taking berries and trying to throw them in other's mouths. We too would dance and stomp until the adults forced us home, to sleep. I loved those celebrations. They happened on holidays or after weddings. Or even if we just needed a reason to laugh.
Alas, all good things end.
I still see Iris sometimes. Both my parents have passed on. I miss them. I miss everyone from my life then.
Now I'm old. I can't run or play anymore. My hearing is below mediocre at best. I sit and read most of the day, or stare out the window. When I'm strong enough, I go on short walks. I can't do anything useful, except tell stories. I like to tell them. The people in my town were all amazing storytellers, I have learned from the best.
I have a granddaughter. Her name is Alice. She is only five years of age but reminds me so much of me. When she is angry she sticks out her bottom lip and scowls with such velocity it's genuinely intimidating. When she laughs it's like a spring gurgling, light and happy and free.
My son, her father, Micheal tells me she is a budding artist. Alice is my first grandchild and I don't know how many more I'll live to see. But Alice loves my stories. And she tells me her own.
I don't know what has happened to our house or our town, which I haven't visited for decades. Whatever it has become, I hope the next generation of families has a wonderful of a time I as I did.