nichepoetryandprose

poetry and prose about place

Posts Tagged ‘childhood

imagination

with 2 comments

When I was little, I lived in Alberta, in a house built by my father and mother. At the back of the house was a veranda. Below the veranda was a big vegetable garden, full of corn and pumpkins and mint. At the end of the garden, was a power pole, used by my mother as a clothes pole.

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my mom and I in the garden … the clothes pole is in the far left of the photo, at the end of the garden

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On laundry day, my mother hung the wet clothing on a line stretching between the house and the pole. As she hung the laundry, I would play at the end of the garden, under my mother’s watchful eye.

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But I was not where she supposed me to be. Instead, I was off on some imaginary adventure. One place I would go —  into the cave beneath the rocks around the base of the clothes pole. In my imagination, the cave led to a tunnel, running under the garden and weaving between roots of pumpkin and mint. I don’t remember what I ‘saw’ in the world I entered or any of the adventures I must have had. Imagination can take you anywhere!

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laundry day

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mint splashes, fresh

against the wall

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her mother pins

clothes to the line

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shirts dance towards

pole at the end

of the garden,

a pole covered

in pumpkin vine

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where a small girl

skips, turns her chin

towards blue sky

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where rainbow begins

and ends,

on the green hill,

entry to cave,

hidden from sun

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and the girl skips

slower, slower

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follows tunnel

under garden

between tendrils

of ripe pumpkin

and root of mint

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and above earth,

her mother pins

clothes to the line

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All my best,

Jane

Written by jane tims

September 10, 2018 at 2:30 pm

a moment of beautiful – a swing in the orchard

with 18 comments

the space: in the shade of a tree

the beautiful: an old wooden swing

The sight of a swing hanging from the solid limb of an old tree recalls happy hours of swinging when I was a child.

On my grandfather’s farm, the swing was a swing-chair, and I spent hours pushing the old swing to its limits (see ‘in the apple orchard’  the post for August 9, 2011, under the category ‘my grandfather’s farm’).  At home in Ralston, Alberta, the community playground had an adult-sized swing set, strong enough to withstand our approach of ‘stand on the seat and pump’.  And, when my son was little, we had an old-fashioned board and rope swing – it was a little off-kilter and seemed to go side-to-side rather than forward-and-backward but I remember he and I had lots of fun.

My own childhood story about board and rope swings is bitter-sweet.  My Dad built me a swing and hung it from the rafters in the basement of our house in Medicine Hat.  I loved it, but … one day I let go of the ropes and fell backwards, hitting my head on the concrete floor.  I can still remember the intense pain and the big black star that dominated my vision for a moment.  People who know me will say this explains a lot.

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swing sway

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the old swing

hangs frayed from a limb

of the apple tree

sways

hips as she waits

for the downtown bus

rocking learned

in baby years

when rhythm brought peace

and a quiet evening

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© Jane Tims  2012

Written by jane tims

March 31, 2012 at 7:05 am

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