The Magic

My childhood around the Clarkston house is characterized by magic that surrounded my time there. Every part of the house and the yard held some sort of mystery. The white porch swing could take me to the moon if I went fast enough. The yard was rife with places to find easter eggs in the spring. The creek held all sorts of critters: crawfish, snakes, and lizards. Years ago an old tree held a swing we could jump off and roll down the hill. My mother says years before that it was a tire swing that wrapped around the tree. There’s a lane in the back of the acreage that’s just large enough to fit a tractor through- the track that I would ride on with my grandfather as he let me steer. According to legend, this is the same lane of trees that my uncle crashed his bug into when he was learning to drive. The pool, that just last year was closed because it was too costly to keep up, holds many memories from learning how to dive or do a watermelon, to “bombing the man in the inner tube,” to pretending to be a mermaid. There has always been a pool in the yard although the first one is buried in the yard of my great grandparents’ house. When I was in my preteens, I tried to build a treehouse with my best friend and we only managed to put supports and three boards down before we gave up. Now two of the trees have fallen down and are almost invisible under the ivy. I’m sure the third tree will fall down soon.