We lived in that little pink house. Some kind of just starting neighborhood in a rural area. I think the houses were built one at a time, or three or something, but instead of dividing the pasture with a road or two, all of the houses were built all around the perimeter, which left an enormous empty space in the middle. And, because it was a pasture, it was not perfectly square or round; kind of like an amoeba shape. I was much lower in the middle, much lower than any of the surrounding acres and I am guessing that because it flooded all the time, that that is the reason it defaulted to houses. As more houses were built, regular roads were sketched in for the surrounding area and acres and in those areas there were actual blocks and intersections and like that.
In one area there was an empty space, where no house was built. Maybe somebody owned it and the house plans just never were finished, or the owner died and the estate was not managed or maybe it was never sold to anyone, still belonging to the farmer who started selling off his land.
That empty space was to the immediate east of the little pink house. We used to play in its untamed wildness. It was so wild and natural that you could get lost, or at least become unobserved in that patch of weeds, grasses and wildflowers.
We played there, children's imagination fueled play. I wonder sometimes what that playing must have been like and how much of an influence the madness in the little pink house had upon what we did out there.
Did we play about all of the usual things or was our activity about how we would be in a different life, with different parents and with different madness? Did we pretend that we had traveled miles and years away from there? Was it ordinary play or a respite?
I have memories of laying deep in the greens and waving grasses, their plump seeds moving above me. Watch clouds.
That is my happiest childhood memory. I am sure there must have been plenty more, but not quite so nice.