The past and the present

All it was ,was a memory of forty odd years ago ,of childhood summers spent in a house many miles from the place I call home. A large six bedroom house its gates heaved under the weight of colourful bougainvillea in a riot of colours. This was where we would swing to and fro just for the fun of it. The main door had four panels with wooden stoppers,those doors have long passed their prime but the old houses keep them. The garden between house and gate was filled with fine pebbles that crumched as you walked up to the front door. No one could come in unannounced you were heard before you were seen. A veranda skirted the house on all sides and this was filled with potted plants of roses,poppies,strange colourful leafy varieties of croutons. The living room had a red carpet running all the way to the back of the house. Walk through the door and one enters a room that had no real purpose except to serve as a meeting place for all the family. The dinning room was a long corridor and behind it on the outside ther was a chicken coup . Fresh eggs had to be collected everyday for breakfast.

Childhood was spent roaming the grounds behind the house where all manner of fruit and vegetables grew. Menus were decided on what was in season and children like us had the pleasure of plucking anything that was in season.

Years later with the grandparents dead the house went to rack and ruin. It's silence was defending at times,no children played on the lawns,no adults had heated discussions and slowly the flowers died of neglect and the fruit trees turned to birds to keep them alive.

I return with my memory intact to try and re create the memory that is so fresh in my mind. I remember the steep road that led to the house and I recognise the bus stop but for the life of me I cannot find the road. There is no address ,for in those days we had only to name our grandfather to find our house but finding someone of that generation is difficult. The main road is packed bumper to bumper with cars ( in our days a bus was a rare occurrence). We have to call a cousin to get directions only to find that we have gone on the road twice but haven't found the house.

Forty years and development has taken its toll. The road has been widened to accommodate all ever increasing traffic and our beautiful pebbled lawn has now become road. The wide sweep to our front door is gone. My cousins have sold part of the garden and in the place of mulberry bushes and cashew nut trees,we now have an ugly tin building. Finally thanks to a frail uncle ( the purpose of the visit besides the memories) sitting in his easy chair watching the world go by,we find the other house in the same compound. It's more modern than I remember I bu it holds no memories. I rush back to the old house to take some pictures. The backyard remains the same wild and overgrown and I recognise some vegetables of my childhood. The side road is still the narrow country parth it was those many years ago and the front door hasn't changed but it has that sad depleted look of a country house once a glorious landmark ,now stripped of its grand status or does one as a small child see things much larger than I now see it as an adult? Whatever the reason I decide to hold on to my childhood memory. It's a lot more real,a lot more colourful and no fancy photography is required to hold it safe in my mind.