As I walk around this old house, built around 1929, the floors squeak. Every room has a memory. I’ve lived here my whole life. The smell of my mother’s favorite smell, spice and cinnamon, lingers in the air, almost as thick as the memories in this house that built me.
The large living room is the first thing seen when entering the old home. The large crackling fireplace sits majestically in the corner. During the winter it roars day and night. It reminds me of the times we gathered there during our annual family Christmas party. With my family all around and my mother franticly trying to make everything perfect, all my little cousins play loudly in the floors. Looking at the large leather couch in the corner, I can see my grandparents now sitting with their eggnog reminiscing how Christmas used to be. I can just hear my grandpa saying in his loud, experienced voice,
-“Back when I was a kid, we’d get two presents and a smile from our father!”
Then my grandma’s sweet, shrill voice would respond,
-“Oh no you didn’t! And didn’t you say we should always give these grandchildren a better childhood?”
The festivities of the party would usually continue and then the family would slowly shuffle out of the large glass doors.
As I walk to the back of the old house I look out to the backyard. I see a frail, water soaked deer target propped up against the tall wooden fence. I remember the long, warm fall afternoons with my father, standing there for hours on end with our bows and arrows. Shooting arrow after arrow in fear of missing, my dad’s warm humor comforted me. It’s such a memory to me because my father has been such a tremendous part of my life. As we shot he always said,
-“Practice makes perfect, and one day you’ll get the chance to use these skills”
I’d usally respond with something like,
-“I know dad!”
As I walk this old house with a memory in every step. I walk back to the side door, over the old, cold concrete floor and see the old cracked up driveway. I remember the hot summer day when something somewhat tragic happened. My mother complained how our yard looked for days so my father and I went to work. My dad was busy chopping and cutting the bushes; raking and bagging leaves from the previous fall. The smell of fresh cut grass lingers. My dad asks me to move his old jeep from the driveway into the yard. Reluctantly I hoped into the old red machine. I started it with a sputter and to my surprise the vehicle jumped forward with a loud bang. I realized I rammed my dad’s new, shiny red Chevy. My father rushes over to my 10 year old self. He then says,
-“Don’t worry about the truck; it can be fixed, are YOU okay?”
As I walk around this old house, memories are everywhere. With little scratches here and there I remember my childhood. As I walk around MY old house, I remember my life.
