Cornwall,Ontario, 1955

I wish I could express the magic of that summer when I turned 6 in Canada. First, there was the house. Aunt Grace's house was beautiful. Built prior to 1900, on a lovely tree-shaded lot, the two storey house became my dream house. Not to be realized in this life, I fear. There was cranberry cut glass in the front door and a parlour kept shaded to fight the heat. A huge kitchen, formal dining room and cozy den completed the first floor, except for a half bath off the kitchen, and a generous front hall. Upstairs were four sunny bedrooms and at the back, over the kitchen, up one step and down two hid one of the prettiest bathrooms I've ever seen. Voices carried up the back stairs from the kitchen, so the bathroom became a good place to hang out and listen. There was a huge attic, loaded with the obligatory trunks full of old clothes and toys, and the aforementioned cellar with its behemoth of a furnace. Mom showed me the spot in the shady, fragrant garden where their wedding photos had been taken.

I found out there was another house--this one a summer cottage on an island in the St Lawrence that didn't exist by the time we went back in 1957. The St Lawrence Seaway had swallowed it up. The same families who were friends in Cornwall owned cottages on the island. These were small cottages, without electricity or indoor plumbing, where I had my first experience sleeping in (and falling out of) an upper bunk. There were no cars on the island, so kids ran wild in the twilight, chasing fireflies and playing hide and seek. Most of Mom's friends had married younger than she, so their kids were teenagers. They probably wished they were back in the city, where there were ice cream parlours and radios and jukeboxes, and I served as a welcome distraction from boredom. I was introduced to the wonders of nail polish, chewing gum and rock'n'roll.

Every so often, growing up, I could put a stick of Juicyfruit in my mouth and be transported back to that summer when it never seemed to rain.

It's wonderful how much more is coming back to me as I write this. I highly recommend writing down your childhood memories for that reason alone. There are other benefits, but they all pale next to that one. Recovering these precious snippets of my past is exciting and reassuring.

It was the summer that is invoked when I see a Norman Rockwell painting. I felt secure, and all was right with the world.