A slice of childhood.
I don't remember exactly when it was, but I was very young. Possibly during my first year of elementary school, but I'm not sure I was even that old.
In my early childhood, I grew up in an area of town know as Cole Harbour. More specifically, Forest Hills. (The specific location doesn't really matter, but you should have no trouble finding it on a map if you're bored.) I know the developments and subdivisions of the land in that area have spread deeper into the woodland, trading trees for houses, but at the time my parents moved into their first house, where I formed my first memories, theirs was one of the first homes built on the street. It was the edge Dartmouth, at the furthest reaches of the suburbs. Technically outside of Dartmouth's city limits, we actually lived in Halifax County. Sure, there were subdivided lots all around us which bore bungalows and split entries by the time I was old enough to remember, but we had a patch of woods in our back yard which led to paths that could take you to lakes and hills. A ten minute walk in any other direction could lead you to other forests or lakes, or my first elementary school, which I have fond memories of.
This particular memory was not about school. It took place on a winter afternoon. Mom had bundled me up snug and warm so I could go out and play in the snow. From what I remember it wasn't super cold out, but there was snow on the ground, and it wasn't melting. I probably romped around in the back yard for a while, but before long I decended the gentle slope towards the tree line, and down the few stairs that led me beneath the canopy of pines and into the woods.
I remember that it was quiet there. Birds chirped and tweeted among the trees. I remember I laid down on my back and watched the birds above me. My mitten clad hands stretched out from my sides I remained still just watching. After some time a few of the chickadees decended from the trees, hunting for snacks among the bits of forest debris on the snow. Before long the birds were going about their business just a few inches from my hands and from my boots. I was facinated by how the birds moved. How close they would come to me as long as I remained still. Calmly, quietly they would scamper about checking to see if that speck to the left was bark or a tasty morsal. I remained, watching the little critters until I felt chills creaping into my toes and fingers before I sat up and climbed the gentle slope to the warmth inside the house above.
I don't know what made me think of this. But there you are. A slice of childhood.
In my early childhood, I grew up in an area of town know as Cole Harbour. More specifically, Forest Hills. (The specific location doesn't really matter, but you should have no trouble finding it on a map if you're bored.) I know the developments and subdivisions of the land in that area have spread deeper into the woodland, trading trees for houses, but at the time my parents moved into their first house, where I formed my first memories, theirs was one of the first homes built on the street. It was the edge Dartmouth, at the furthest reaches of the suburbs. Technically outside of Dartmouth's city limits, we actually lived in Halifax County. Sure, there were subdivided lots all around us which bore bungalows and split entries by the time I was old enough to remember, but we had a patch of woods in our back yard which led to paths that could take you to lakes and hills. A ten minute walk in any other direction could lead you to other forests or lakes, or my first elementary school, which I have fond memories of.
This particular memory was not about school. It took place on a winter afternoon. Mom had bundled me up snug and warm so I could go out and play in the snow. From what I remember it wasn't super cold out, but there was snow on the ground, and it wasn't melting. I probably romped around in the back yard for a while, but before long I decended the gentle slope towards the tree line, and down the few stairs that led me beneath the canopy of pines and into the woods.
I remember that it was quiet there. Birds chirped and tweeted among the trees. I remember I laid down on my back and watched the birds above me. My mitten clad hands stretched out from my sides I remained still just watching. After some time a few of the chickadees decended from the trees, hunting for snacks among the bits of forest debris on the snow. Before long the birds were going about their business just a few inches from my hands and from my boots. I was facinated by how the birds moved. How close they would come to me as long as I remained still. Calmly, quietly they would scamper about checking to see if that speck to the left was bark or a tasty morsal. I remained, watching the little critters until I felt chills creaping into my toes and fingers before I sat up and climbed the gentle slope to the warmth inside the house above.
I don't know what made me think of this. But there you are. A slice of childhood.