Who remembers when?
These days, I find myself like an aging Dylan Thomas trying to remember those days when…
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
Though I may be confused at times, I do remember those days as happy times.
Peace in the 60s takes on a new meaning for aging “flower children”.
Remember the good old days, when a looking for a Christmas tree was a trip with a saw to the forest in a Volkswagen van?:)
When I was a child, it was grandpa with his white beard and boots, on foot. We parked the truck by the side of the road and walked through the deep snow. The snow rose to mid-thigh, making its way inside my boots, and quickly turning to cold water. The wind and the cold made my nose runny. And though I had mittens my fingers were smitten, nearly frost bitten.
When we came home with our prize tree for all to admire, Grandma was ready with a hot cup of cocoa, but not before she said to me, “Get out of those wet clothes, you’ll catch your death” and gave grandpa a look I took for a scold.
Oh, what a wonderful time. Dad’s woody wagon, a trip to the hill, sleds loaded in the back with the dogs, and whoosh!