Saturday, February 25, 2012


The little house in Blue River is still there, just at the edges of my memory. And it comes to mind surprisingly often.
My parents bedroom door was kept closed; less for the coal furnace to heat.
It remained perpetually cool, like a walk in refrigerator.
This may be why my parents stowed our winter cashe of apples there.
I remember opening that door, and inhaling the chilled, apple scented air.
Strongly sweetly, icily fresh.
Falling asleep must have been so heavenly in that room.
Aromatherapy at its finest.
When I mentioned this memory to my daughter she could suddenly taste homemade apple sauce, such is the sensory power of memory.

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