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| Sitting with Kronk. |
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| Sitting on Kronk. :) |
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Every day is the start of something beautiful.
“Faucet! Get help! Malissa is unwell!”
My British accent resonated from the top story of the playhouse built with my daddy’s two strong hands. “Faucet”, or my little brother Reece, leapt in response for the umpteenth time. He ran around looking for doctors and medicines in the old-fashioned world we imagined in our humble backyard. Reece ran down the steep mountain of a hill, dug out of the middle of our yard. At the bottom of the dip was a fire pit dug out of the ground by my daddy’s two strong hands. The hill was perfect for sledding come winter and perfect for rolling down in the summer. Reece ran back up to the playhouse dodging the baby pine tree that went up barely past his six-year-old head. Panting from the lengthy journey, he bitterly explained that there were no doctors available at this time of night. The two of us honed our nursing skills and managed to care of the sickly stuffed doll all on our own.
Several years later, I had the opportunity to revisit this most beloved childhood home. I felt bubbly and nostalgic as I pulled into the driveway of the familiar light brick house. There were a few things different already. The door had been repainted and the numbers were flashier. No one was home so I couldn’t look inside, but I didn’t really care about the interior anyway. I just wanted to see the backyard again. To roll down the steep hill and climb to the highest point of the lookout tower of the playhouse. I wanted to cut down the pine tree and decorate it for Christmas.
I pushed the side gate open and heard a familiar creak. What I saw shocked me. It was as if someone had put my backyard in the dryer. Everything was smaller and less-grandeur than I had remembered. The “mountain” for sledding and rolling was more of a gradual decline in the lawn. The pond was mostly rocks with a puddle of water and the enormous playhouse was misshapen and not nearly as high as it had once been. The pine tree, which I expected would be even taller by now, was even after the years, still much smaller than I remembered.
I sat on the “front porch” of the playhouse and ran my hand along the rough wood crafted and lovingly built by my dad. I couldn’t help but silently cry as I remembered the magic and peace it had brought to my early years.
My British accent resonated from the top story of the playhouse built with my daddy’s two strong hands. “Faucet”, or my little brother Reece, leapt in response for the umpteenth time. He ran around looking for doctors and medicines in the old-fashioned world we imagined in our humble backyard. Reece ran down the steep mountain of a hill, dug out of the middle of our yard. At the bottom of the dip was a fire pit dug out of the ground by my daddy’s two strong hands. The hill was perfect for sledding come winter and perfect for rolling down in the summer. Reece ran back up to the playhouse dodging the baby pine tree that went up barely past his six-year-old head. Panting from the lengthy journey, he bitterly explained that there were no doctors available at this time of night. The two of us honed our nursing skills and managed to care of the sickly stuffed doll all on our own.
Several years later, I had the opportunity to revisit this most beloved childhood home. I felt bubbly and nostalgic as I pulled into the driveway of the familiar light brick house. There were a few things different already. The door had been repainted and the numbers were flashier. No one was home so I couldn’t look inside, but I didn’t really care about the interior anyway. I just wanted to see the backyard again. To roll down the steep hill and climb to the highest point of the lookout tower of the playhouse. I wanted to cut down the pine tree and decorate it for Christmas.
I pushed the side gate open and heard a familiar creak. What I saw shocked me. It was as if someone had put my backyard in the dryer. Everything was smaller and less-grandeur than I had remembered. The “mountain” for sledding and rolling was more of a gradual decline in the lawn. The pond was mostly rocks with a puddle of water and the enormous playhouse was misshapen and not nearly as high as it had once been. The pine tree, which I expected would be even taller by now, was even after the years, still much smaller than I remembered.
I sat on the “front porch” of the playhouse and ran my hand along the rough wood crafted and lovingly built by my dad. I couldn’t help but silently cry as I remembered the magic and peace it had brought to my early years.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
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