My grandmother Marion Ross had a house nestled in a magic garden. The property was three acres, and the house had been built right in the center, to afford long and elegant vistas from each room. Her husband, my Grandfather Rod, was like a sprite; impish, jolly, his hands always in the earth, plucking or seeding, bringing baskets and pails of berries and potatoes in for the proper midday meal.
The house had been designed by an architect, and although it was humble in size it had a perfect balance of scale and light; mystery and welcome. The kitchen was steamy, pots burbling with fresh picked produce. The porcelain sink was always full - carrots, their green tops hanging over the counter edge, soil clinging to the orange dashes. In the spring and summer; always flowers, from the garden; scented roses, lilac, zinnias.
All meals were eaten at the end of the kitchen, in a corner window overlooking lawns and beech trees, fringed in crocuses and erythronium. The table had a jar of silver tea spoons and many newspapers spread over its surface, quickly gathered and folded when a meal was presented. The children were squeezed in at the end of the table, close to the clouded windows and cool from the glass. The narrow space required that you turned sideways and inched your way along, very careful not to knock little treasures off the low deep windowsills. We always said a prayer before the meal and there were many bowls and utensils, and much passing and please could you-ing.
The living room was long and low, with paned windows almost to the floor. It was quiet and always, there was a clock ticking. A big worn leather chair sat angled so you could read from the window light.
The intimate wing of the house was reached by a long hall. I so distinctly remember slowly slipping along the floor in my stocking feet, the wood floor creaking with my steps. Light from my uncle’s room lit the air and motes hung suspended. There was no colour, just light and soft luminous walls, and wood. My room was on the North side of the house, and had a single bed with cool sheets and many heavy blankets. Easing my feet down, from the safety of my warm nightgown, to the full length, took ages; the warmth spread so slowly.
The house was filled with treasures – vessels and vases and little boxes and ceramics and books and art. These items held the whole story of their lives. I was never scolded in my exploration. I opened and poked and unfolded all the mysteries.
The house had such simple comforts; the open fire, the low protective roof, carpets and sweaters to fend off chill, plentiful and frequent tea served in softly clattering cups. It was just enough of a shelter to make you feel a great appreciation for what it was providing – the blowing wet outside was there, just beyond the glass. The windows did not stop the world from coming in. Through them was draft and scent and the sound of wind in huge firs, and birds, and rain. The fragile separation from the outside made the golden light and the fire warmth all the more delicious.
This house, now gone; the land built upon and lost, has always been my inspiration. For me, my childhood memories are the most settled – deep and well anchored, providers of creativity and dreams.