There was a cheerful and busy atmosphere in that tidy, cozy kitchen, one that invited even a total stranger on a frigid day to warm his hands by the sturdy, boxy cooking stove that kept guard over all the happenings in the kitchen. Although it bore signs of wear, it often contained a blazing fire and on it sat a polished copper tea kettle that was stout and perky and whistled with all its might. Shiny, round, copper pots and pans, relatives of the tea kettle, adorned the walls. Plain, solid oak cupboards stretched from eye level upward to the lofty ceiling and held hundreds of chipped and cracked, well-used dishes with blue country patterns on them, but yellowed with age.

Below the cupboards stretched sideboards scrubbed spotless, scrubbed bare in some places. A long, deep specked double sink that was awkward and irregular in shape and size, yet practicle, sat below the window overlooking the porch, through which sunbeams sparkled and warmed the clean wooden planks of the floor. To the right of the sink was a heavy cast iron water pump that was painted a cheerful tomato-red. When coerced by hand, water would come gushing out and plummet to the sink below.

On the other side of the kitchen, a sturdy oval, mahogany table stood like a soldier reporting for duty and kept the stove company. The small pantry off the far side of the kitchen served as a perfect haven for rounds of hide-and-go-seek. Its walls were painted periwinkle-blue and the many overloaded shelves sagged under the weight of canned corned beef, fiddleheads and blackberry preserves. Strings of dried herbs hung from above, like precious memories stored in the corner of one’s mind. The odor of onions and musty potatoes, mixed with sugar and coffee grounds hung in the air.

The memory of this place reminds me of happy days and contentment, when a gingerbread cookie was enough to stop the tears from a skinned knee.