LOST LUNCHES
My childhood trips to visit my grandma and grandpa were usually a time of excitement. Not so much the long trip in the car, but an endless game of I-Spy usually kept us kids placated.
The real excitement kicked in once we left the highway and entered the old charms of Port Hope. Even more so once we pulled up to their house, a stately red brick palace nestled in a sprawling yard of flower beds and cedar hedges.
We would spend our days exploring the town, going to the book stores and antique shops. In the spring, we would go down to the Ganaraska River and watch the salmon fight their way up the rapids and waterfalls, leaping high into the air.
It was always an adventure, especially when my Dad's brothers and sister were there with their kids, the cousins I rarely saw.
One of my sharpest memories of those visits is also one of the simplest: the lunches my grandma would prepare.
There would be trays of sandwiches, perfectly sliced triangles stuffed with even portions of tuna, ham, salmon, and cheese; small bowls filled with Sweet mixes pickles, dills, and onions.
There were juices and milk, and cold bottles beers for the adults to drink.
I relished those lunches for their quiet simplicity and the togetherness they inspired. They were good times, simple and efficient.
I miss those lunches. I am sure it is mostly an extension of missing my grandparents, but I those lunches also represented a simpler, more innocent time.
One day I hope to return to that house and poke around its secret corners once more. It would be nice to find a bit of the magic still in place, a small reminder of those times hidden along the creaky wooden corridors of that house.
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