The White Picket Fence
My childhood years took place in an antique 50’s house that my mother grew up in, my grandpa’s house. I enjoyed spending most of my free time with my relatives and hardly left my mom’s side as a child. Before my grandfather died we spent every Christmas with my mom’s side of the family corrupting their old and beautiful home. Most of my memories took place in this house with my Grandparent’s. It is a house that is deeply embedded in my heart and the stories will permanently spread through the generations of love that I produce. A house that is lined with a white picket fence and holds the creation of my dreams and ambitions for life.
I remember walking into the deep red brick house. Covered in snow from the Colorado sky was the shingled roof that only rose ten feet above the ground. The willow tree that sat a few feet from the gray cement driveway was wilting from the cold weather and very few limbs grazed the brown grass. As if the tree had personality with its sad and happy moods. Some leaves were brown, others deep purple and red. As though it couldn’t make up its mind whether it could accept the coming of the cold and harsh winter or refuse to give up the humid spring air. This was my tree, the tree I learned to climb, the tree that held my yellow and red childhood swing, and the tree I would learn to relate to as it became lifeless next to my grandfather’s white paneled bedroom window.
I walked through the red oak door that was held by gold hinges to the brown carpeted dining room which set in the entry way. I took my first Christmas breath at granddad’s house. The heavy air filled my nose with the scent of oven roasted brown sugar ham. My favorite dish my grandma ever made. The dish I would never forget that sat on a black antique plate that was placed particularly close to the head of the table. The table sat in the center of the wood paneled room that was custom made by my granddad’s father. This table was meant to...