Growing up, I loved Victorian houses. I searched for gingerbread, wrought iron and widow's walks where ever we went. I would imagine all sorts of adventures on those elegant roofs. We lived in a Victorian era house when I was very small. The gingerbread had been removed and the pocket doors were sealed into the walls. I don't remember much about it. I always figured that is where my love of ornate houses came from.
During my college years, the university theater guild advertised a showing of Mary Poppins. I dragged my best friend to see it. I knew that I had seen it during a magical summer when I was, again, very small. I didn't really remember any of it. I vaguely knew the story. I just wanted to see it again.
As the opening scene started to unfold a sense of belonging washed over me. By the time the canon went off, I knew. I absolutely knew what I had been searching for all those years. It was that street. Those houses and that cannon.
A subconscious memory that impinged upon my conscious behavior. And still today.
Oh. To have a cannon on the roof.