Playing house.  I LOVED to “play house” when I was a little girl.  It consumed me.  Childhood memories flooded into my mind the other day with a simple sighting of a bush similar to one that we had in our backyard at my childhood home.

I saw this bush the other day . . . while I was of all things, in a parking lot looking over a small wooded area eating my “Junior Whopper”!  (so what if sometimes I go through the drive-through, and sit in my car eating my highly delicious, if not the most healthy of lunch choices.)

Even though it seems silly, I went back in time.

My best friend, Susan and I decided that since “our berries” on the south side of the garage were ripe, squishy, and “ready”, we were going to make jam.  We assumed we couldn’t eat these berries (or maybe our mothers told us NOT to), but we could PRETEND to make jam, which we did.  We knew all the motions. Both of our mothers canned fruit, vegetables, jam, usually with what grew in the gardens both of our families had.  We even used little canning jars. It kept us very busy.

Susan and I made more than just pretend jars of jam.  We made our childhoods rich with imagination, make believe, sharing, and companionship.  We played dolls, played with “trinkets” on blankets on the grass in our yards,  Annie Oakley, (who by now has probably lost popularity), and even stitched embroidery … all outdoors, enjoying the summer sun. We were both four years old when we met. She’ll remain forever in my heart, even though we no longer are neighbors.

I miss Susan.