Hello all! I’ve been absent from blogging for a while, partly due to a week’s vacation in ‘my’ lovely mountains. Half of the time, our family was enjoying my grandparents’ and aunt’s house, the one where I spent much of my childhood.
This visit, I couldn’t help but reflect on the names of their road and house, and how Anne of Green Gables would have spruced them up quite a bit. For fun I’m following in her footsteps. Here’s my chance to think up lovely (if not superfluous) names, and indulge in a little description of a place dear to me. And here’s your chance to follow a virtual tour, or roll your eyes in disgust and leave if description isn’t your thing. 🙂
Winding Waters Lane
Ok, I know, those of you who have visited, this isn’t too far from the original name. It’s all I have right now. But as we pull down the drive, my attention is immediately torn between the antique green house on my left and the tiny pond on my right. The tug of curiosity over this historical house, whose oldest part was built at the turn on the 19th century, and the creek-fed pond-where does the creek start? how long can you follow it? -tantalize even the smallest sense of adventure. From the first sighting, secrets beckon from every corner and crevice.
I’ll leave the house for another time. For now, I’ll walk to the pond. The sun is shining and crickets chirp loudly; an ideal time for a walk. The road leads past the left curve of the pond, but I tread to the right and circle that way over soft grass. My eyes are drawn to a place now empty. The mysterious Lady of the Pond once sat at the opposite edge of the pond, enchanting the water with a cast of her grey eyes. Her legs were folded under her-or was it her tail? My sisters and I always wondered but were never quite sure. Any attempts to get close enough to find out were hindered. We’d find ourselves sunk in mud and tall grass if we approached from the roadside; across the water, vision was obscured by the same grass-and probably a little magic of the Lady’s herself.
As I continue around, the ground rises above the water line, and trees spring up like a screen between the path and the water. I stand on the edge of a drop off and gaze down at the water through leaves and branches. The path slopes gently down towards the remains of a fence, lichen-crusted and often housing a snail or shy spider. I squeeze around the fence and am soon near the creek. Years back, an old, green water wheel stood resolutely where the creek disappeared happily into the stream. It was chipped and had ceased to work for some time; a relic of the past, maybe like the Lady herself. I don’t remember when or exactly how they both disappeared. My grandfather probably simply had them hauled away. But I can’t help imagining that at least the grey Lady is still swimming in the pond, teasing the frogs and frolicking in summer moonlight.
The Creek of Hidden Treasures
And now I’ve come back to the road. But not before stopping to look upstream on my right. In summer, exuberant foliage obscures some of the stream from this angle; I smile and remember days of many summers spent exploring that creek, muddy feet numb from the spring water, knees scraped from kneeling to search for crawfish and salamanders; fingernails dirty from rocks and pebbles flipped over in search of said creature or for building dams and waterways; of hours spent without sense of time.
By now, my kids will probably be needing me. It’s time to head back to the house. Later today I’ll take them down here and show them the secrets of my land of misty memories.