Home, Sweet Home

She was a stately old girl – standing tall yet grey and weathered on the banks of the Erie Canal. In her time I imagine she stood stoic and proud as the mule-driven barges moved slowly passed.

This was our home. We moved in late in her life. From the sprawling front porch we would enter into a grand entryway where a staircase spiraled skyward to the upper floors. The rooms were spacious with soaring ceilings and tall windows.

The kitchen sat at the back of the house where Mom spent long hours cooking and baking. The sweet scent of fresh baked bread or Grandma’s molasses cookies were familiar aromas when returning from school or playing with our friends.

Above our bedrooms was a dark and haunting room – the attic. The stairway, behind a narrow hall door, was confining. But, oh, how we loved to sneak up into the attic on a rainy day! It was mysterious.

We only lived here a few years. Dad worked for the man who owned the farm. When the farm was sold to the government, we were forced to move. The farm is now the property of the New York State Parks Department; and the grand old house has been torn down. There is nothing left of the old girl except precious memories of days long past.

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