“Memories are the treasures locked deep within the storehouse of our souls; to keep our hearts warm.” — Becky Aligata
Once upon a summer, I played tag and softball and ran races with Madeira Street’s other ten-year-olds. Lunch was chipped ham and sweet pickles on Miracle Whip-slathered bread chased with Tropical Punch or Pink Lemonade or Cherry Kool-Aid. We played Tic-tac-toe, hangman and checkers on porches and watched television cartoons until dinner. At sundown, the ice cream truck’s jingle promised sparkling shaved ice drenched with pineapple or watermelon, strawberry or grape syrups. Now sometimes as leaves fall at eventide, I think of playmates running under streetlights, calling through the twilight.
“There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place, where colors are brighter, the air is softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again.” Elizabeth Lawrence
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