Meandering down memory lane

I've written before that I didn't really have a good childhood, but that's the big picture, there were moments, times and most importantly people who made a little boy happy.

One of the odd 'side effects' of my upbringing was the lack of any real record, when I entered adulthood I had no photographs, or even really belongings, that showed my life as that little boy.

When Mum died she left me boxes upon boxes of photographs - wonderful that she'd kept them, so sad that we never got to a place where she could tell me she had. But most of those were from my home life, and family photographs were always heavily staged by my stepfather - whilst they were, and are, interesting to see, they didn't really convey much of a truth, though I do like the look of defiance I have in many ;)

Visits back to the farm are a literal trip down memory lane, and these last couple of days have been no different. If anything, as farm and family fade the poignancy and impact strikes a little deeper, means a little more. I know my time visiting here is coming to an end, a part of life I'm not sure I'm yet ready for. The farm has always been there, a lifelong constant, a known oasis, a touchstone. It's also the one place that I always felt safe and  associate with happiness, though I now know there were tough times there too, it's one of the few early childhood places I definitely have happy memories of.

Nowadays it's frozen in time. There are drawers and shelves undisturbed in decades - memories linger like shades - the faded oriental carpet vibrant in the mind's eye , the frightening taxidermy now bizarrely comforting, the lost garden paths still walked by familiar feet.
Each time I'm there I'll dare to open a closet, or reach high for a box. My grandparents, that first kodak generation, clearly took copious photographs - many lost to time, most looking like the filtered effects so popular again today - but some, in the wonderful way that only a photograph can be, are little windows back in time, glimpses of candles they did their best to light. There's no staging or shouting, no cajoling or anger, just a little boy laughing and holding his grandfather's hand. Magic.