Sam’s “Way Back” Files

Far Away Now…

That time, before a child encounters any anguish at all, has been referred to as “the age of innocence.”  I experienced that blissful time on a Pennsylvania mountain top; long before it became fashionable to include our mountain in what is now referred to as Appalachia. 

Our house sat 1,955 feet above sea level and faced to the north; it was based loosely on a Cape Cod design, with a single large dormer in front, and a front porch tucked under the northeast corner of the main roof. 

Summer mornings there, were delicious mix of complete comfort and total security.  The back door sat open, except for a wooden screen door; white sheer curtains billowed gently, as a wonderfully cool breeze entered the open windows.  Of course, at some, the curtains pressed hard against the window screens as the wind left again, oblivious to its visit.

The kitchen was large; what we would refer to today as a country kitchen; back then, it really was.  At 9 AM, a trombone would herald the arrival of Arthur Godfrey; to replace Don McNeil and the Breakfast Club.

The screen door made a creaking, stretching sound; welcoming one to a covered back porch that ran nearly the length of the house. The weathered tongue-in-groove porch floor is somehow not fully protected by its coat of gray paint. A large Wisteria forms a full archway at the east end of the porch; its delicious smell fills the nostrils with soothing magic.

On a summer morning, sun streams from behind the plumb trees. The garage, covered in dark green shingles stands one-hundred feet upslope, near the crest of the ridge line.  Four old canvas beach chairs, the kind that very nearly recline, wait to cradle a child, who is still filled with sleep and total contentment. 

Author’s Note: These photos show a older me. I have very few photos of that ridge top house …