I was sorting through some old computer files today – looking for something I had once written and stored. I never found it, but I did come across a page of writings that looked to be some random bits from my childhood. I had written them in April of 2010. I imagine my intent had been to record more. Instead, they were altogether forgotten. They are probably of little consequence to anyone, but as I read these bits, it occurred to me that I have often had grand dreams of recording my whole history, but it always feels too daunting – the whole starting back with earliest recollections and moving towards the present; trying to miss nothing of great significance or leave out small bits of insignificance that still paint a clear picture of a life. Maybe I still will some day when I have limitless time for all the projects I would like to complete. In the meantime, I think I will institute a little occasional post theme: Childhood Memories. Wherein I will recount any small pieces I want to so that, at least, some parts of my growing up will be recorded and kept safe in my little printed blog books.
Anyway, here are the two small recordings that I found today. Don’t be surprised to see this theme regularly. Or . . . somewhat regularly anyway.
A good hour after she should have been sleeping, Goldie whispered to me (as I checked on her one more time), “Maybe if you could just get a little glass of milk from the fridge and then put it in the microwave for like 20 seconds, that would help.”
She knew about the wonders of warm milk putting you to sleep from Mike – who had warmed it for her on several other sleepless nights.
As I walked downstairs to make her some, it struck me as strange that warm milk was really being used in my home as a means to induce sleep. I liked the idea of it – it sounds like an old wives' remedy and has a wholesome feel about it, but I never would have thought to institute the use of warm milk in my house.
I was offered warm milk myself growing up on occasion, but I always politely declined – warm milk sounding slightly revolting to me. However, maybe it was simply the fact that it would have been the powdered milk we grew up on. If the glass of warm milk offered had been whole milk, it might have been a completely different story.
My mom did make something rather lovely when we were ill. I don't recall what illness exactly it was to treat, or what symptoms it was to alleviate, but it was a little mixture involving honey and possibly lime or lemon juice, and I recall being slightly comforted by the concoction on several late night occasions.
The Pool Table
We had a pool table in our basement during my growing up years. I don't know how long before I came on the scene it had been there, nor do I know, oddly enough, when exactly it left. It was so enormous and was such a main feature in the downstairs “playroom,” that it seems impossible to not have noticed its leaving. And yet, the room is open and pool table free now and I wonder how it ever came to be that way with out me having paid it any mind. I also wonder how it was removed at all. It was no ordinary pool table. This was a heavy duty serious pool player's table. I doubt I could have even lifted one end off of the ground, and I recall being surprised that the small spindly-legged things I came across every now and then at friends' homes were also considered pool tables.
It didn't just have little netted pockets to retrieve your balls from. The balls actually went down the holes where you would then hear them rolling their little trek through the unseen pathways inside of the beast before being dropped out in a central front opening where all the balls stayed stored after games.
You could crawl and hide fairly well under either of the long pool table sides (and someone was sure to be hiding there at any point during many of our night time “cops and robbers” games), but you couldn't see who might be hiding on the other side as the middle portion went solidly to the ground and must have contained the mysterious paths the pool balls rolled along.