Two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.
It was lunchtime at one of the IMPaX events. Laughter and comments flew back and forth around our table of eight. We joked about “the green stuff” in each glass, and shared anecdotes about its positive impact in our lives. We touched on several other topics including childhood memories of favorite foods and places each of us had lived. Soon it was time to reconvene for the afternoon session. As we moved toward the convention hall, my ear caught the fragment of a conversation: I always wanted a room with a view.
Driving home after dinner, my mind returned to that fragment. Once upon a time I had a room with a view, I thought to myself... The builder had never intended it to be a bedroom...
It was just a pause between the first and second stories of the house. There was space for a single bed, a child-sized desk and chair, and a little chest of drawers that also served as a parakeet-cage stand. Jutting out over the back porch, three walls of windowpanes, this landing provided the perfect backdrop for a young girl's fantasy.
The sun was my alarm clock. Every morning, except when the East windows were pelted by rain or snow, Old Sol shot in its warm rays around the edges of the blinds. To the West the wooded hills stretched away toward Hudson Bay and courier-de-boiswho silently patrolled its lonely shores.
The best pictures were from the North windows. Below, there were the ice flows, struggling to free themselves from the clutches of the riverbanks. Pistol shots cracked and labored groans filled the air as mini-icebergs bumped and jostled each other on their way to the sea. In their wake the panorama altered to a great expanse of living-green velvet that rolled down from the porch to the churning whirlpools that were the mighty Red River.
Looking up, the giant screen of the sky changed features regularly. In the spring, it showed cased great flocks of Canada Geese as they honked by in formation on their way home. In autumn, it presented the ballet of the leaves. Bits of yellow, scarlet, orange and brown swished gently by, brushing the glass in farewell. Perfectly choreographed, they danced and dipped to the piano artistry of Roger Williams.
Winter featured the legendary Northern Lights. In mysterious hues they beckoned to me as they twinkled, blinked, and swirled gauzy veils. How I longed to travel with them! Their ethereal warmth surrounded me like an electric blanket and made up for the howling winds that threatened to tear stucco from wall. And Jack Frost returned to etch medieval castles on each window, hang icicles from every twig and wire, and sprinkle unreplicatable diamonds everywhere.
In summer, the scent of lilac, lily-of-the-valley, and jasmine called Blue Birds to nest under the eves and Kingfishers to hone their diving skills. More than once a knight in shining armor galloped by, one with his white stead, slowing almost imperceptible to touch his visor in greeting.
Wrapped warmly in an Eaton's comforter, hot chocolate leaving a ring on the glass-topped desk, I would watch a private showing of the sunset as it played hide-and-seek among the clouds. With the drape pulled snugly across the door opening to signal that my tower room was closed for the night and the ancient goose-necked lamp stretched out to meet Jack London's Call of the Wild, I would be ready for whatever else might be offered up by way of entertainment.
Sometimes it was a snowy owl swooping down to meet a field mouse, or a giant hare searching for the last seeds on the hillside, or a lone canoe catching the moonlight on birch bark as its paddle sang Pauline Johnson's song, or rain pelting patterns on the windows that rivaled the most original Rorschach blots. It didn't matter. All was interesting in this, my Camelot!
The freeway sign for my exit loomed into view and my brain pulled me back into the 21st Century. Memories are a very precious part of life. Being able to recall them at will is a very precious gift, one that we sometimes take for granted. I am depending on EnerPrime™, “the green stuff,” to help my brain keep remembering as I journey (gracefully, I hope) toward 120!
©Arlene R. Taylor PhD, Realizations Inc