Memories of a Childhood Home

My dad built a house on a hill. How exciting to climb to the tippy-top then look down upon the roof, and dog home, the bean garden, and to sled the slope in Winter white. eyes delirious dazzled, dizzy, delighted dopamine kicked in A truck gets stuck at the bottom of our steep driveway, blocking local traffic on our rural road. I wonder if this sticks in anyone else’s memory? Then like ants, industrious, sweating for donuts and coffee, my dad’s friends work their quads, up and down this unexpected hell. our walls carried up unfinished planks, like a cross friendship marches on We’d help spackle the parts of the wall scored by nails. Dad would use the saw to cut a wooden floor, like his rest-in-peace dad, who surely stops in to measure his son’s progress, to see his grandkids placing the unstained wood. this home has no ghosts brand-spanking new on old hill but the past’s with us While constructing, Mom would open a can of Dinty Moore stew, cook over a portable stove, and serve over rice. We would order Pizza from Salvatore’s - my mouth waters at the thought of this New York pie with Italian sausage, sauce and cheese. They’d occasionally order a submarine; I can still taste the fresh lettuce, tomato and thin-sliced deli meats on yeasty bread. what we remember is funny; the senses touch childhood memories The builder, of the house’s frame, was called one day. He was told my dad went through the roof. Later, they came, standing outside and sizing up the roof, when my mom questioned them as to what he was looking at. Mom rolled her eyes as she told him, what was meant, was that my dad was mad. screwball translation the heated conversation is lost in humor Shovelling the driveway, in Winter, in my plaid, woollen, hooded coat. My face can feel the chill, the briskness of the wind, and the warmth of mittens. I miss my childhood, even the arduous times, those wonderful family times. a surprise arrives at this address; a newborn unplanned, a kicker