Number 39
Number 39 stood next to a railway embankment that ran alongside the house; this was the home of my paternal grandparents’ and their three boys. A small selection of family snapshots, all taken in the back garden over a period of three decades, show snippets of family life. Many of the photos were taken before I was born, mum’s anecdotes brought them to life for me.
I can’t remember standing outside in the garden waiting to have my photograph taken, different recollections are triggered instead by the small pieces of paper from which my younger self gazes. The thrill of the train set I received one Christmas, the food my Nana cooked, the Sunday visits and thinly sliced bread which we ate in the back room kept for special occasions. The dark old fashioned furniture, the smell of grandad’s pipe, the dark chocolate and mint sweets he loved.
It’s been more than sixty years since I last visited number 39. Hazy memories, fading photographs, and half remembered stories are all that remain. It’s a place lost to time but one that remains deep in my psyche, my roots grew there.
