A Million Little Pieces Of My Mind

The house in Vermont had three large, unfinished rooms we called "attics". As an adult, looking back, I realize that what we called the "first attic" was actually just half the second floor of the house, a half that had never been "finished" as we now say. But my sisters and I didn't care; it just meant we had a whole half-floor to play in. This was where my wind-up Victrola was located, and where my sisters would establish doll villages.

There were also old trunks filled with memorabilia from the turn of the century, including an extensive selection of magazines, such as The World Today with articles such as "Why Japan Will Never Attack Pearl Harbor".

And then there was the trunk full of labels for a home remedy that, apparently, was being concocted in-house. Mrs. Beals' Blood and Liver Syrup lists no ingredients, as such a list wasn't required. But you can bet either heroin or morphine were primary components, as most bottled home remedies did in those days. Which is, of course, why consumers of these products felt better when they took some.

To say we had a large yard to also play in, would be an understatement. We owned 65 acres of Vermont's Northeast Kingdom and played on most of it, and mostly did so unsupervised. Before he died, Dad, the Auction King, had, in addition to my Victrola, had gotten us a sandbox. Except we had no sand. But my sisters and I would sit and play in it anyway, pretending it was a spaceship and we were riding it to some other planet.

Ironically, we actually had sand—no fewer than three sandpits on the property! And we kids played in them, too, until I read a book about the discovery of the first known Neanderthal skull, in England, in a sandpit. So of course then I was afraid I might accidentally dig up a skull, so I stopped playing there.

Even at 9 years old, I definitely appreciated the beauty of the place. And since I was allowed to use the Brownie camera, I began documenting the nicest scenes, like this view of the bend in what we called "the long driveway".

(The driveway was actually a loop with both ends on the road. But, from our vantage point at the house, we thought of it as two separate driveways, the long one and the short, steeper one that led to the mailbox.)

There were a couple of little cement squares on the lawn with dirt, not grass, inside. Mom said they were for growing plants. So I bought a packet of radish seeds and planted them, and they grew! I ate one, but wasn't too impressed. And I haven't had much luck growing anything since. Mom used to go on and on about how she had a "Brown thumb" (Brown being her maiden name) and couldn't grow anything, that healthy plants given to her would die. I may have just bought into that.

Although the trees, especially pine and maple, grew thickly, there were paths everywhere, and I never hesitated to explore them, it never occurring to me that I could get lost. (But I didn't, except for one time with Mom, who wouldn't listen to me.) When I found the above path that led to the stretch of Moose River that crossed our property, I was quick to take my sisters there for a little cooling off.

Now, to be honest, the river wasn't deep, at least, not there; and the current was gentle. But I had, and have, no idea if Mom had any idea where we were or what we were doing. It was pretty much the opposite of today's "helicopter parenting" but we never actually got hurt. And it developed in me, at least, a confidence that I could navigate my world without supervision.