Memories of home and holidays

A couple of weeks ago my daughter and I started a fan page on Facebook for my hometown, Cundy's Harbor, Maine. We did it because there were so many of us living abroad (that is... beyond the town line) that we wanted to make sure that there was a place for many of us to go and register our thoughts. As of the last count we had 87 fans. That doesn't sound like a lot, but when you figure that Cundy's Harbor is just a small part of a bigger town and the main road is only about 9 miles long... this is quite a few of us. More are coming I'm sure. Making that turn onto the harbor road is the same for me as going home. Even as I cross Gurnet Bridge I can feel it in my bones. That familiarity. That sense of place. That part of my soul. (...more)

There isn't a holiday that doesn't go by that we don't trot out those memories from childhood. Some good, some bad and some are best told now that Mum has passed away. For instance, the time that she went with us to look for a Christmas tree and stepped off the side of the road into the snow, only to sink to her waist. (Note: Mum was only 5'3 on a good day). We laughed until we cried and she did not appreciate our humor. Or there was the year she was making pie crust the night before Thanksgiving and put them in the oven for safe keeping, only to find that a mouse had gotten in and nibbled (and other things) on the crust. Thanksgiving morning she had to start from scratch and she was truly not impressed.

Stories involving my father are usually much more humorous and are often involve either firearms, or his own brand of logic. For instance, that same year that Mum had the disasterous time with the pie shells she had finally gotten them cooked and cooled without further incident. Dad carefully placed the pies in the trunk of our old car and we set off for a cousins house, but just as we rounded the first corner on Cranberry Horn there was a disasterous thunk. When dad got out investigate he found that the spare tire had slid forward onto the pies. He never said a word to Mum, merely scraped the meringue back onto the pie and we set off once again, swearing Kathi and I to secrecy. But we were never very good at keeping those stories to ourselves. I don't believe that the cousins ever figured out about the pie... until now. Then there was the year that Mum insisted that Dad help us look for the tree and he brought along his shot gun. When she questioned why he only told her that there were no "good trees" at eye level on our 10 acre woodlot. The best trees he reasoned where high up. And since he had no intention of cutting down an entire tree only to get the top of it he believed it would be best to shoot off the top of the tree. And that's just what he did.

Now, you have a good idea of where I get my sense of humor :)

As the holidays get closer I find myself lingering over these memories, sustaining myself of the humor and innocence and the fun that we had. I hope that someday when my kids are grown and we are gathered around for a holiday that they will look back with the same fondness that I have.

Thanks Mum and Dad for the memories.

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