Anna's childhood memories reborn

I grew up in an old, white farmhouse with a classic white-washed wooden porch. The wooden swing hanging on the porch had just enough of a creak to let Mama in the kitchen know when Talulah and I swung with the breeze as we gossiped about our school days.

Our family had some land - maybe 5 acres - on which we raised a pony, a few chickens, two dogs, five barn cats and almost all the food we needed to eat. My father prided himself on self-sufficient and sustainable practices. We cared about our land and where the food came from. Daddy worked an hour away on an organic farm. Mama was a painter who stayed home with me, Talulah and Max, our towheaded little brother.

My favorite childhood memory is very simple. It isn't a big celebration - such as Christmas or my birthday. There is one summer day - when I was 7 - that was just the perfect temperature with plenty of sun. Max, Talulah and I were playing out in the front yard with a bottle of bubbles. Talulah and I danced around the yard, singing as we blew bubbles at 4-year-old Max. Every once in a while one of our dogs - Coco or ChaCha, Airedale terriers - would chase after us and the bubbles until we collapsed on each other smearing grass stains on our rolled-up jeans and simple white T-shirts. I could feel Mama watching us from the big window above the sink as she washed dishes from our PB&J lunch.

Our dancing and singing and bubbles only ceased when Daddy's old battered, faded blue Chevy truck hobbled down the long gravel driveway lined by then-blossoming crab apple trees. The pink and white petals rained down on Daddy's truck like a sugary sweet hint at the present he had for us in the truck bed. Daddy parked, and as he got out of the car he called to Mama to join us outside as we three children raced each other to his side. From his truck bed, Daddy pulled a crateful of the sweetest summer fruit I had ever tasted. Juice dripped down our faces as our family of five sat on the white porch steps, enjoying our snack and listening to the wind in the trees.

At 18, Talulah was just getting ready to go off to college - NYU. She was excited about her dorm and new roommate, so I was helping her pack up all of her dorm necessities. We spent the day packing extra-long sheets, pillows, a comforter and a trash can into the back of her little Honda Prelude - she was going to drive all the way from our home in Spokane, Washington, to New York City. I don't remember how it happened - I was just 15 and careless. My memories come back in flashes. Eventually I am down in the front yard at dusk watching as the flames leapt and danced, consuming not only my beloved childhood home but also my mentor, my role model, Talulah. I can still hear her voice barely reaching me from the attic bedroom window as the smoke slowly stifled her voice and replaced the air in her lungs.

-Written June 10 as the result of a creative writing exercise for "Finding the Story," an MFA class at Hamline University