I've discovered that if you do something the same way twice and it is successful, everyone involved remembers it as "we always had marshmallow fluff fights on the Summer Solstice!" Oh wait! That is a brilliant idea. Plans are underway for a Marshmallow Fluff "fight" for June 21st, 2012! Mark your calendars, NOW, boys and girls! Details to be announced.
Now where was I? Oh yes, profound thoughts... My brain is wired to be nostalgic for the oddest things, sunlight on the hillside where a house now stands. I will never relive that particular day, when I was twelve, and I looked out the kitchen window and saw the late afternoon sun on the tall grasses on the hillside. So much has changed since then. There is an addition on my parents' house that blocks the view from that window. Someone built a house on that hillside. I am a little taller, much heavier and a whole lot grayer than I was decades ago.
But someday someone else will look out the window of that addition and become nostalgic for the way the light reflects in the windows of that "new" house.
|The class of 2001-02 pose!|
Back then (in the late 1960s) we felt like heroes because we cleaned out years and years of pigeon poop and we put in safe floors and windows. Back then we could not believe that we collected enough money to put in bathrooms on the ground floor. The mill race and its entrance and exit were still in place all those many years ago. We planned on using hydroelectric power from the water wheel.
|Trains pass on the OTHER side!|
Now there are elevators and separate rest rooms and handrails and beautiful paintings on the thick wooden beams - (at least they appear to be unchanged) - and safety doors and... As we walked down into the basement, the former home of the mill race, a young woman chirped out, "There's nothing down here. The sale is outside."
"I'm reliving my childhood", I told her. And then I added with undue pride, "I was the treasurer of TRIM for two years",... as if, she would know or even care what TRIM (Teens for the Restoration of Illicks Mill) was. And then I explained to my husband, who was not lucky enough to grow up here, all about the Mill race and the iron grates.
The smell of old stone and moss is still the same.
Nabokov has his spiral marble, others have their cups of tea, or blue glass bracelets. I have sunlight on long grasses and the smell of old stone to take me swirling back to a time when things were, as I believed, "the way they always were". And even then, I was changing the way things were and the way things became changed me.
Profound thoughts, ahhh. Now, who is bringing the Fluff catapults next year?