We all have childhoods where memories are created.
Some are good, some not so good and some are fantastic memories that never leave the deep depths of our minds.
They stay in the brain like elevator music.
Quietly guiding us through our years.
My grandfather grew up in a country home without electricity, running water or phone.
When he passed away as did his brothers and sisters my dad became the owner.
It was a two hour drive from our home.
We called it the cottage.
The cottage was set on a hill overlooking a huge lake where the water was deep and cold but crystal clear.
Huge hay fields surrounded it but the cattle and horses were now only memories.
Our family spent many weeks and weekends living in the beautiful old cottage.
Two huge aspen trees fluttered their leaves when the breeze blew.
we awakened to the sounds and ran outside in our pajamas to play on the swing that was hung a long time ago by some kind relative.
I can still see the look on my mothers face as she and my sisters washed their hair in the soft rainwater from the rain barrel located near the back door.
A few years before our memories began my young dad paid a visit to his family.
The driveway was grass covered from lack of visitors to the old folks who still lived in the cottage.
His old car failed to make it to the top of the steep hill and he got stuck in the mud at the gate.
While trying to get it out he ate an apple.
Eighty years later the apple tree that grew from the seed of that apple still bears a sweet tasting fruit.
We kids loved the cottage.
We loved cleaning and lighting the kerosene lanterns as the days turned to dusk.
We enjoyed dipping a pail of water from the water barrel for household uses.
The outdoor toilet was spooky in the evening as bats began their hunt.
The entire cottage was made of wood.
The walls and ceilings and floors were all cut by my grandfathers hand saw.
They had cut the logs from the trees nearby, air dried them for a year.
We used to marvel how tightly they fit.
The entire house was painted inside with real oil paint.
The kitchen was red and white and shined as if it was waxed.
Our own children spent their summers in the same cottage.
They played with the old things as we did.
The wind up gramophone that stood in the corner of the living room.
Even the old worn out recording of Pop Goes The Weasel was played over and over again until the needle wore out and then the machine simply sat muted for life.
Decades have passed since those memories made their way to the storage room in my brain.
Those memories have guided our family through life as readily as the finest maps of today.
Every once in awhile when we get together we relive those golden summers and those pleasant memories created by our loving parents.