Perspective: an ever changing thing

    Greetings from the Ridge.
    Someone had shrunk the house. There was no other logical explanation. I’d spent hundreds of hours of my childhood exploring the nooks and crannies of Grandma’s house, jumping on each piece of her furniture, inspecting each precious knickknack, and generally terrorizing my poor grandparents who were more than indulgent when the grandkids would come to play.
    I can remember going at a dead run for what seemed like a half a mile from her kitchen table, then doing a belly flop in Grandpa’s recliner, and then running marathons around the interior of her spacious, two-story frame farmhouse. So what the heck had happened? This summer I asked the house’s present residents if I could once again take a peek at this wonderland that had provided me with so many hours of childhood pleasure, and they gladly agreed. I just didn’t understand. The house looked the same from the outside, but when I stepped inside the front door. . . well, everything had suddenly become a miniature of that big old house that was stuck so firmly in my recollection. Sure, the new residents had remodeled, but everything was so darned small in comparison to the playground of my memory.
 

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