By Dorothy Weismiller
Viewpoints are an interesting phenomenon. One person sees something one way and the next has an entirely different perception.
I made a visit with our children to the place where I had grown up – in Saskatchewan , on a farm. As we drew up , I noticed the few Caragana trees had been removed and I knew the buildings had been sold soon after the land but as I stood there and pointed out where the house had stood and the barn and the windmill, I could see it so well in my mind’s eye that I told them the colour of the house and how, when my brother and I painted it in our early teens, we had run out of paint, but cautious, even at that age, we painted the sides that could be seen from the road first, and when we ran out of the beige, we tried to convince ourselves no one would ever notice.
I showed them where the path of flat rocks led to the barn and told them that my father said that his parents had a rock path like that and his mother had washed the rocks every wash day. I could see that so clearly in my mind’s eye that I felt sorry for her, though I had never seen my grandmother or the rocks.
When I questioned why she had to wash the rocks, he said that she never wasted water and the rocks needed cleaning.
Then we walked out to where the barn was where my brother and I would go up in the loft to throw down hay to the horses. On the way, I showed my children where the windmill stood and how once the head had fallen down while we played under it.
My children, a little older than I had been when I lived there, didn’t ask any questions and seemed glad to get back to the car.
Recently, I asked my son who has grown children now, if he remembered going to the farm and what he remembered. He said, “Mom, there was nothing there.”
He had an entirely different viewpoint, and I had only memories.