dandelion days

Even now, we say the red brick house is our favorite. It's full of cozy memories, Sunday slide shows and family night in the front room with Grandma and Grandpa. We used to watch John and Amy steal rocks from "The Ladies," next door, a set of sisters who never married. They had an enchanting rose garden, full of rocks as good as chalk for writing on the sidewalk. In the summer on their back patio, they would let us crank their player piano. They sipped iced tea in their house coats and pushed their feet back and forth on the pavement, the gliding vinyl patio furniture swinging to the music.

We played night games until dusk and did fireworks the whole month of July. The park just up the street was perfect for playing "Three Billy Goats Gruff" and Dad made the best Troll. We liked to practice softball on the lawn. The flowering plum tree was home plate, the edge of the sandbox was first, the drinking fountain was second, and the bench was third. Amy and I usually got stuck in the outfield where we'd make clover flower crowns and talk about anything at all until it was our turn to bat.

Maybe it's because life was simpler, because my best friends lived next door, or because the farthest I could run before my Dad could catch me was up the street to the park, but every memory of that house is magical. Even with a Dorothy Hamill wedge haircut, life was perfect.