Walter Blondin is one of the neighbor boys that I used to play with when I was a young girl scooting around forest acres. His parents, Pat and Llyod, left Seward long ago, but you still hear their names being fondly tossed around the coffee shops. Walter made a large impact on me, mostly because I have a scar next to my left eye where he hit me with a stick.
That isn't the only reason, we have a shared memory of sunny summer afternoons playing in the mature spruce forest that surrounded our homes. Picking currants and blueberries so that my grandmother would make jam to go woth the ice cream she seemed to produce daily. Ferns, wildflowers, puski, and devils clubs made up our playground along with downed trees long put to bed under a thick layer of moss.
The Blondins lived in a log cabin next door, with some funky additions that made for great places to find cover when playing hide and seek. It burned down a few years after they left. The barn that housed Babe, Little John, and a revolving door of cows was pulled down as well. And the dog kennels, and chicken coop, and rabbit hutches.
The old garage is still there, and maybe the root cellar. Someone started a fence between his yard and mine, but it never got passed the initial framing.
One look at Walter and I am immediately six years old again. Magic power he carries.
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