Long ago and far away
My memory goes back to a time when we made our annual visit to the home of my paternal grandparents who lived in a small town in Germany. We traveled a number of miles from where we lived to gather for summer family reunions.
Grandma was forever busy cooking and baking. Mealtimes were special as we gathered around the large table in the dining room. It seemed that Grandma never took time to sit down and eat. She was busy taking care of her large brood and making sure that we got enough to eat. Some of the grandchildren were poor eaters and didn’t always like the food. Instead they were busy chattering.
Grandpa was a mild mannered man, but when it came to dining he demanded absolute silence. Pounding his cane on the floor he told us to quit talking and not leave the table until we had cleaned our plates.
I often think of those days long ago. In balmy weather we went on long hikes or played in my grandparents’ large garden or picked apples that were still green, sometimes making us sick.
I dream of the nights sleeping under feather beds. The walls of my bedroom, which also served as the library, were lined with book shelves. Always a ferocious reader, my favorite books were “The Last of the Mohicans” and “The Leather Stocking Tales,” written by James Fenimore Cooper (1789-1851).
Little did I dream that one day I would find a new home in the place where the Indians once roamed. It may well be said that life is stranger than fiction.