Back on Maple Ridge

When I went to Wisconsin, I stayed with my very dear friend Kathryn. Kathryn happens to have just moved into the house where I lived as a young child, from age 3-6; a grand old farmhouse on the top of a windy ridge in the middle of nowhere and yet the center of so much south-western Wisconsin. Pulling up in the yard after my 20+ hours of first-time-solo driving across the country, I was overwhelmed with a strange feeling of coming home and yet being entirely unaccustomed to the place.


That house holds so many vague memories of my early childhood, half remembered, more images than anything else. It is something like my version of Plato's ideal chair - when I hear "stairs" I see the dark wood staircase with the landing that we sat on with out stockings on Christmas morning. "Porch" brings to mind the wrap around porch where the dog had her puppies.


Have you ever had the experience of sleeping in the room you slept in as a 5 year old? I never thought I would, but there I was! The wall paper my mother put up for me was there still, the hole in the closet that peeked into my sister's closet was still open. The large mural of apples my mother painted on the dining room wall was unfortunately gone. I think Kathryn would have liked those.