A Memory of a Farmhouse

It was always cold on the second floor of the old farmhouse.

The only passive source of heat was through an iron register cut into the second story hallway connecting it to the large dining room below.

Transoms above the bedroom doors were supposed to help pull the warm air up, but it was a chilly proposition at best. The only augmentary heat on that floor was a space heater used to warm the bathroom on the morning before school.

In winter, baths were always hurried affairs...shivering little bodies rushing to get dressed and escape to warmth and sustenance down the steep flight of stairs. I told my children to think of themselves as pioneers...I don't think that idealization ever really worked with them.

On days when the temperatures weren't quite as frigid upstairs, the register was a great source of amusement and entertainment for my children.

Often you would see a string dangling down from the high ceiling with a rolled up note. Sometimes the notes said, "Can we have cookies?" and sometimes they were written in secret code and I received an irritated "Mo-ooomm!!! That wasn't for you!" for my nosiness.

Sometimes little ears would gather around the opening to eavesdrop on adult conversation.

And any time the children were playing upstairs and there was a knock at the porch door, you could be certain that three pairs of eyes would be peering through the metal of the register to see what was happening.

Twice each year the register would be a gathering place for three little tow heads trying to discern if Santa or the Easter Bunny had stopped yet.

It was during those years, that I would leave clues directly below the register...a trail of a few bright colored plastic eggs along with some leaves and grass from the yard...a bootprint or a sprig of pine to show that Santa had already visited.

On holiday mornings it was my custom to get up quite early to prepare a special breakfast to start the day. The house would be filled with contented quiet...the sound that only occurs when things feel right in our own private worlds.

Soon after breakfast preparations began, the quiet would be punctuated with excited whisper and giggles. I would stand at the bottom of the steep stairs going up and listen.

"Look, look! He was here!" More giggling and excited rustling around. "Do you think Mom is up? I smell something? I'm sure Mom is up! Let's go downstairs!"

I would quickly return to my little kitchen and continue preparations for our special meal.

In they would burst...voices rising in an excited crescendo of suprise! "Mom, Mom! He came! Did you see the grass on the floor? (or the muddy boot prints?) Are you mad he made a mess, Mom?"

The quiet of the expectant morning would be broken...unlikely to return for the rest of the day.

Treasures needed to be exclaimed over.

Children, tired and wired from too much excitement, needed to be calmed and quieted.

...

After the days events were over and the last story read and the last glass of water fetched...

The house would grow quiet and still...

And I would peak through the register before I went downstairs...

Another year.

Another memory.

Another page for the quietly lovely scrapbook of family memories I hold in my heart.

This little memory is written in honor of the letter "Q". Q is for Quiet.

To read other 'Q' offerings, just click here.