By Margo, on February 20th, 2010%
In the summer, when the air was warm and my skinny nine-year old legs were brown and bare, I swung impatiently on the garden gate. My belly tingled in anticipation and every time I heard a car coming down the road, my heart pounded so fast and so loud I thought the whole world could hear it.
When the weather was too cold to be outside or if it was raining (quite frequently in England!), I sat with my nose pressed up against the window pane in the living room, fogging up the glass with each breath I exhaled. . . . → Read More: OASIS: Polly
By Margo, on September 2nd, 2009%
Dad’s back yard was his pride and joy. Actually, his whole garden was good reason for him to be proud. I’m referring now to the garden of the prefab house that I associate with my young childhood – age five through eleven years.
There was a concrete walkway that crossed the full width of the back of the house. This was then bordered by a tall trellis fence with an archway set midway. Both the fence and the archway were painted white and were covered by thickly growing rambling roses. The delicate perfume of these roses when they were . . . → Read More: Vignettes: My Kingdom
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