GHOSTS OF FOOTSTEPS....

When we got our new lounge a few months ago we had to move furniture- give some away- and move some more furniture.

One of the 'moved' objects is Nan's china cabinet. My sister actually bought it (29 years ago?) after Nan died, but when she moved had nowhere to put it so I have 'looked' after it. Quite happily in fact.

It houses a wealth of nostalgia. From holidays and birthdays, sentimental curios that cost nothing but mean a lot.

What intrigued me was when it moved to an open area, when my other half stomps   or walks past it rattles and shakes and I am instantly transported back in time to Nan's house.



Not in the front room, where I'm sure the cabinet was, but walking into the kitchen. Past the huge dresser that stood on the right hand side. It always shook and everything in it, all the bowls and cups rattled happily together.

Every time I hear that clink and rattle of our cabinet, then I'm instantly back at Nan's. Waiting to hear the sound of footsteps behind me as my brothers and sister come roaring in. Knowing the feel of the lino floor underneath my feet, the smell of furniture polish and lavender.

Amazing what a sound can do.

I mean we all have the music we grew up with- songs that mean something to us. That bring back a particular day or event. Some good, some not so good.

And you show me a mother, no matter how old they are, when they hear that 'MUM', turn their head. Doesn't matter how old their children are, or even if they are in the same town, state or even country----our heads turn. Instinctual.

I hear the TOOT TOOT of an old fashioned train and I'm with Puffing Billy. That's because I hear him from our house when I'm out in the garden. Sounds do help to bring back a memory or have a strong attraction for us.

I know I don't use enough aural senses in my writing, in fact I wonder if I use any at all. I'm sure I do----don't I?


Working on my travel piece and I've realised that no matter where I am, if I hear the call to prayer, I'll instantly be transported back to India.

Those early mornings on the road, ready to face another day of adventure and discovery. Or in our case, waiting to see how far we got before we broke down. Again.


Or those rare mornings we allowed ourselves the luxury of a sleep in and lying on our beds watching the ceiling fan lazily turn round and round. Listening to the call of prayer and birdsong we couldn't identify.

Each time someone walks past Nan's cabinet, I listen for the ghosts of footsteps.

Perhaps it's time for a cuppa and a good dose of nostalgia?

Vicki 





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