Fritwell

I spent some years of my early life in Fritwell, England. (If you don't know where it is, don't worry. Even Brits I meet don't know where Fritwell is.) I have pleasant memories - the sort that have that fuzzy, warm, dreamlike quality - of my childhood there which was composed, like most childhoods, I imagine, my family, our backyard, and a healthy dose of make-believe. The ditch that ran through our backyard into the large field behind our house, which was spotted with apathetic sheep and knarled trees; the sandbox on our stone patio where my brother and I made sand pies, which are not as tasty as apple pies; the tadpoles that appeared annually and seemed to fill up the entire pond; that one tree, far away in the middle of the field to which someone had nailed a few mishapen boards, creating a ladder of sorts; the vegetable garden in the corner of the yard with the tomatos and sweet peas and morning glories that were taller than I.

Out of curiosity the other day I Googled Fritwell, to see if I recognized any of the pictures that came up. I found my school, which I remember in scattered, but vivid, detail: Mr. Pryor the enthusiastic headmaster, the auditorium where we sang "Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me," the foyer where we kept our outdoor shoes when we changed to our indoor shoes. The field behind the school seemed endless. I recall one recess running to the very end of the field and then running back-it took so long that I missed the bell and ran into class late and panting in my disheveled uniform, and the prim and proper, gray cardigan-ed Miss Clark snapped her gray head toward me and raised her eyebrows. I burned in humiliation.

I vaguely remember a trip in our Volvo van to Banbury, famous for its cross: Ride a cock horse, to Banbury cross, to see a fine lady upon a white horse... I remember Banbury being cold and stony, with lots of little cars zooming round the roundabout, and seeing women dressed in hot pink miniskirts with frizzy hair (it was the 80s, after all.) They seemed so grown up and exotic. And none of them wore rings on their fingers or bells on their toes.

I'd like to go back, but I'm afraid that if I do, the dreamy pastel quality of my memories will be replaced by the black and white perceptions of a grown-up. Maybe I will. Someday. The food, at least, might not be as bad as my mother remembers. And if I go around the holidays, there's the Christmas pudding-oh, the pudding! That in itself may be worth the trip.