childhood memories - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
We soaked conkers in vinegar and baked them, hoping it would give us the edge in our conker battles. With a hole drilled through the middle they were the finest entertainment we could have on many a long autumnal day. Those times with my brothers, focused on victory, are the best of childhood memories.
My childhood memories are a photo album I can edit. So I keep the best ones, the ones that bring me joy and let the others fade.
Holding one hand and one foot, my father would spin me around real fast upon the grass and daisies. We called it an "airplane" ride. He'd get giddy and I would too. It was by far my favourite moment in any warm afternoon.
Back then eating out was a huge treat. Honestly, it was a thing we were genuinely excited about. So, perhaps now the idea of eating fish and chips isn't such a big deal... back in 1980 something it was.
My father got a recycled plastic slide, one in the shape of a giant tube that snaked and turned. He fitted it to the wall of my bedroom so I all day I could run up the stairs, into my room and slide down into our tiny backyard. It didn't matter that we lacked the acres others had, we were in the city after all, because it was so clever the way it twisted, and I'd pass through the insulating curtains that tickled. My mother would put drinks on the route up the stairs and often there would be a family picnic mid-day, outside in the dayshine and inside when it rained. Either way the teddy bears were invited and the food was wonderful. In ever daydream I'm back on that slide. It was such constant fun. At bed time I'd close the doors over the entrance, already looking forward to the sunrise and the chance to play all over again. They are the most wonderful childhood memories, all those simple days that seemed to go on forever.
Mama's apron was a staple of my childhood, patterned with all things British, from teapots to the palace guards. When I think of it the aromas of her fresh baking come flooding in to my brain, my heart leaps and there is that moment of serenity. I see her in that apron, arms wide, a hug just a few steps away.
There was an old man on our street called Ron and he gave all the kids candy that tasted of soap. He was nice, he taught us how to roller-skate better, pointing our toes at "10" and "2" as we went up the hill. But we loved him for a different reason. He had a tame crow that would perch on his shoulders and squawk on command. Or maybe it wasn't a crow, none of us really know anymore. We just stood there with mouths of sweet lavender admiring the inky feathers.
Hopscotch, with stolen chalk and the sun beating down, was how we spent the last of each Indian summer. Without computers or television we drew the squares on the crumbling street and numbered them. Stones were easy to come by, along with the mud and the sticks it was pretty much all we had. We learned to be creative with our rhymes, and to be honest, they got ruder with each passing year. Our bodies grew, our minds expanded, the street crumbled some more; but always the chalk was stolen and the stones were free.
There were nights I lay in my bed listening to the sound of fighting. My mother would shout, my father would begin laying into her and the screaming would start. She cried, he seethed, and I pushed my face into the long toy snake my three year old body was wrapped around. I would think to myself how when mother left I would leave with her, flee the violence. Then one day she did leave... and I remained right where I was with just a toy to comfort me.