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To remember a pleasant experience is to recall days spent at a summer cottage on the outskirts of Evans City.

My aunts Bessie and Rose rented it on an annual basis in the 1940s. At the time neither of them was married, and on the weekends they would take some of their many nieces and nephews with them. My family lived with them and my grandmother. Because of this familiarity, I was usually one of the chosen kids. Vacations, as they are today, were unheard of in our particular circumstances, so these trips to the cottage were our only escape from the city.

The weekends fell into much the same pattern. The drive up, as we sat crammed in the back seat, seemed so very long in comparison to the return trip. My cousins and I grew more excited as we approached Evans City. The one main street consisted of a church, a 5&10, a bank and a theater. A few miles out of town, we came to the dirt road leading to the cottage.

It was a four-room, white frame bungalow, elevated on a stilt-like foundation. The large living room contained several sofas and chairs and like the other rooms was furnished in "early hand-me-downs." Each of the two bedrooms had two double beds and a chest. The walls did not reach all the way to the ceiling, and one could peer into the other rooms by standing on the headboard of the bed.

Sleeping arrangement arguments never arose: One room housed the boys and the other housed the girls; the arrangement never changed. The narrow kitchen ran the width of the cottage, perhaps 20 feet.

Aunt Rose had made red-and-white-checked curtains to match a checked oilcloth table covering. There was a sink, but no running water. A two-burner stove that ran on bottled gas was used for cooking. The icebox was just that -- one of the first models with a constantly overflowing drip pan.

All of the cottages in the area were named. This one was called "Love Thy Neighbor." The outside john, painted a vivid orange and white, was referred to as "Sylvia."

Some 200 yards away was the community pump. All the water was hand pumped and carried to the cottage in pails. We always washed at the pump, and I still get goosebumps remembering the feel of the icy blast as my cousin poured a bucket of water on my soapy back.

Behind the cottage flowed a muddy creek. On the bank was a tree swing that would carry us far across the water. Here we fished and swam and spent many a lazy day floating and hand paddling on fat, black inner tubes.

At the top of the hill was a white frame building called the "Dance Hall." On Saturday nights, square dances were held, and everyone, including the children, attended. During the war, my aunts planted a Victory Garden and some weekends we watered and weeded. We hauled water from the creek ... all for the war effort.

In the evenings, we would roast wieners and marshmallows over a fire that we had built ourselves. This was the only light in the darkness except for the tiny stars in the sky above. We sang songs and told ghost stories and hoped that the evening would never end.

I can recall the smell and the feel of fresh early dew on the grass. Remembering the taste of sweet corn and fresh eggs, bought from a nearby farm, makes my mouth water. I can remember the frightening sensation of the creek water enveloping me and seeping into my nostrils and lungs as a cousin would unexpectedly dunk me.

I can remember the sound of the heavy screen door slamming shut and the chirping of the crickets as they serenaded us to sleep.

Feeling a bit nostalgic, I drove through Evans City several years ago.

It looked much the same as it did in the 1940s, but I could find no trace of the road that led to the cottage. A housing development stood in its place. Both of my aunts have died. I see the cousins at the usual haunts: weddings and funerals.

I know that today, I would not vacation in a place like the Evans City cottage. But way back then, it was wonderful.