For whatever reason, one early Sunday morning from my childhood stands out in my memory this morning. Truly there is no reason for this memory to crop up except perhaps, that I briefly thought of making a 'big' breakfast this morning for everyone before I did the daily 'kid count' and realized I only have 2 kids here this morning.
Coffeehusband has gone to work and
Coffeegirl is staying at a friends. No extra kids here this morning either. So... I nixed the 'big breakfast' but the memory stays none-the-less.
When I was 7 we moved into a very old house. Built somewhere around 1910 I believe, we moved in and promptly started to renovate. I have lived in a home that had no walls. Blankets were hung from nails in rafters to make a bathroom around the claw-foot tub and sink. The kitchen sink was jutting from 2X4's at waist high.
I have lived in a house with no floors. The support beams being the only thing between you and the cement dungeon we called the basement. My Mother took me and my 2 little brothers (at that time the baby had no yet been born) to my Grandmothers home for 2 weeks until my Dad could get a floor put in. Our dining room had gaping holes in the wood floor during reconstruction so we had street signs on the floor to cover them. The attic door opened up to .... nothing. The attic didn't exist. If you opened the attic door it swung open to vast space above our dining room.
But ... I apologise, my memories are getting away with me. That background doesn't actually concern the Sunday morning of my current memory although I guess if I post about my childhood very much in the future that background might be well to remember.
(googled this photo of a floor grate)I was perhaps nine years old. I had moved upstairs into the 'blue' room of our old home. If any of you have lived in a very old home or visited one, you will note they did not have duct work back then. The homes were heated by a central heat source, such as the old Franklin stove in the kitchen and holes were cut in the ceiling to allow warm air to rise to the bedrooms above. An ornate metal grate was put in place over the hole. The scrolls and twirls of the black iron were just wide enough to stop any persons foot from falling through, but wide open to allow heat to filter upwards.
This is what I had in my bedroom. It allowed perfect access to the lower level to throw things on unsuspecting heads, you could see an 8 by 8 square foot area of the room below by peeking through the grates and of course sound carried up quite well as there was literally no floor or ceiling in the way to stop in.
My Sunday Morning Memory starts with me opening my eyes and hearing my Dad in the kitchen downstairs. I looked to my clock and saw it was 6:00 am. I heard the dishes clanging and the voices of conversation, although my floor grate didn't open into the kitchen, but into the hallway area of the living room, the basement and a bedroom, the kitchen and dining were just down the hall from where my floor grate opened. I could hear conversation although I couldn't make out what was being said. They were certainly loud though. Enough pots and pans being clanked around that I knew for certain it was morning my Dad must be making a 'big breakfast' and boy I was hungry!
I got out of bed with a smile on my face and I could almost smell the bacon and eggs frying. I left my room, not bothering to be quiet, for I knew my brothers, across the hall would already be up. I came downstairs and walked through the house to the kitchen expecting to see a full kitchen to match the clamour they were making.
As I rounded the kitchen corner with a smile I was shocked by what I saw.
Nothing.
No one.
There was no one in our kitchen.
My Dad was not making a big breakfast. There were no pots and pans being clanked together. There was no conversation because there was no one there!
Confused I walked to the back of the house where my parents bedroom was. I peeked in and saw them both sound asleep in their beds. I walked back up the stairs and peeked into my brothers room where they too, were both sound asleep in their beds. The house was silent.
Whereas five minutes earlier it was loud enough through my floor grate to wake me from my sleep, it was now dead silent. Not a voice, not a whisper not a click.
And now, years later I often remember that morning whenever I wake on a weekend and consider making what we call a 'big breakfast'. I often remember that 'big breakfast' from my childhood that didn't exist.
But then again... that was not a strange
occurrence in our old house. It was part of living in what came to be accepted by all of us, as a haunted house.
Labels: Childhood, ghosts, rambling