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This Old House
# WritcoStoryChallenge
The old house stood dilapidated and full of memories.
I shoved my bare hands deep into my trouser pockets. The cool autumn breeze had turned colder and I chastised myself for not wearing a sweater. I knew I was coming here today, out in the elements, why hadn't I worn a warmer outfit?
The driveway was a zigzag of cracks and dotted with dried bird poop and ancient oil stains where Daddy used to work on that darned lime green pickup truck.
Oh, Daddy.
He would be so disappointed if he could see the overgrowth of grass in the yard. He had been so meticulous when it came to his lawn. It needed a good mowing and edging. The bushes were running a muck and the trees had grown way too close to the roof. Daddy would have never allowed that to happen.
Long, rectangular windows in the front, Momma and Daddy's bedroom, looked like big, sad, crying eyes. I knew how they felt. Momma had shed many a tear in that room. She thought none of us kids knew, but we did.
The heavy, wooden, turquoise-colored door was faded and peeling, hanging haphazardly on one hinge. It creaked out an ominous cry as I stepped inside.
To the left stood a coat closet. Empty now save a few wire coat hangers. The living room was devoid of furniture only to be replaced by a plethora of dusty cobwebs. I looked down at the crunchy, outdated, golden-yellow shag carpet beneath my feet. Yuck. I had always hated that carpet, even as a kid. And there was the orange spot where my older sister Abigail tried to scrub up the paint she had spilled. Momma was horrified. I felt a smile play across my lips.
Down the hall, my little brother Benji's room was on the right. His ceiling was pooched inward, like it may burst open at any moment. Water damage was evident. A solitary, threadbare rug lay in the center of the room. Lonely. Forlorn. A quiet yet impactful statement. Funny how that simple rug seemed to describe him. A young boy gone too soon. Drugs just cannot combat bullies.
Abigail and Charlene's room, also on the right, was at the end of the hallway. I used to stay awake at night listening to them talk and giggle about boys. And I used to stay awake at night listening to them cry about boys. What were those boys' names again? Hmm ... there was Deke, Elston, Hank and John ... Had those boys pined away for my sisters after their breakups? After they moved away and married?
Then I noticed the shattered window. Another smile slashed across my mouth. I recalled another shattered window. The exact same window. My best friend Felice and I were in the fourth grade and had been playing ball. You can imagine what happened next. She hit the ball so hard. Harder than I had ever seen someone hit a baseball ever in my whole life. It smashed through the glass with a tremendous boom. Felice shoved the bat in my hand and hightailed it down the street toward home. She ran faster than I had seen anyone run in my whole life. Weird that she was now a lawyer and one of her sons was a professional baseball player.
The next bedroom seemed so small. I shared it with Gloria. Lord how we used to fight. Petty little things used to light a fire beneath the both of us. She cut all the hair off my Barbie doll so I let the air out of her bicycle tires. She tore pages out of my Nancy Drew Mysteries so I flushed her homework down the toilet. Momma and Daddy both went round and round with us. I'm surprised I'm not still grounded to this day. I noticed something on the far wall. Writing? I squinted. Huh? Small block letters. "Heather is a heathen." My hand flew to my mouth and I laughed out loud. It was right behind where Gloria's bed would have been. I never knew she had written it.
The kitchen was on the other side of the house. A triangular-patterened linoleum was dirty with gunk and grime, sealed in tight beneath an earwax yellow buildup. Chunks crumbled beneath my heels. There was no scratched kitchen table. No chairs. No pictures. Only one long nail protruding from the wall next to the light switch. I could see the outline. The paddle. Momma and Daddy both used the paddle on us. All of us. Sometimes I knew why. Sometimes we deserved it. I don't know about other times. Maybe we blinked too loud or something.
I remembered the profanity-laced arguments. I remembered the bruises, the welts. I remembered the time Daddy broke Abigail's arm because she had struggled. I remembered the time Momma had to take Charlene to get stitches because the paddle had sliced into her flesh. I threw my hands up to my ears as I remembered my sisters' bloodcurdling and very agonizing screams. I was lucky, I did not have to face their wrath often.
A couple steps forward brought me to the place where the stove used to be. Momma cooked many a delicious meal at that stove. Fried chicken. Hamburger. Yummy pork sausage and creamed potatoes. She certainly knew how to stretch a dollar when it came to feeding her young 'uns.
Oh, Momma.
She would probably be pleased if she saw me today. A little on the plump side. She always said a healthy appetite was a sign of gratitude. I did not know about that. I just thought maybe I was, now, in a better place, mentally and spiritually.
Somehow I ended up in the back yard. A half-acre of jungle reared its ugly head in greeting. Weeds almost as tall as myself waved their lackadaisical greeting. Daddy's vegetable garden was no longer in existence. Our swing set was a mere pile of twisted metal but I could hear the little girls as they giggled and shouted.
"Higher, Abigail! Go higher."
"No, I'm afraid."
"You're a chicken. Bwauk, bwauk."
I could almost see Benji standing there, knees bent, flapping his "wings". Abigail's white cotton dress flapping in the wind and Charlene sticking her tongue out, taunting. Gloria was running back and forth, back and forth in her dirty bare feet, just daring Abs to hit her. I closed my eyes. Ahhh, there it was the eeee, eeee, eeee sound of the chains as the plastic blue seat went up and down, up and down.
As my eyelids reluctantly rose, I noticed Daddy's warped wooden birdhouse. Oh how it had frightened me. No, not the birdhouse really but the owl who had made the thing its home. It watched us kids play from its little peek-a-boo hole with glowing orange eyes. I had raced through the sliding glass door screaming at the top of my lungs. Next thing I knew Daddy was shooting it with his deer rifle. How was I to know it was just a baby? He left it dying in the dirt right at our toes. I couldn't stand seeing the ants devour the poor thing. So, we dug a hole with our sandbox shovels and had an impromptu funeral. Gloria's speech was endearing:
"Dear God, today we bring you this owl from our birdhouse. Now he is coming to your house to live. Please take good care of him. Give him lots of bugs and worms and whatever else owls eat. And when he asks you 'hooo', tell him that we, I mean, Abigail, Charlene, Gloria, Heather and Benjamin Dobbs loved him first. Amen."
My tears were a mix of happy, sorrow, anger and frustration. I turned back to the house, really truly noticing for the first time, its state of disrepair. Roof shingles were either broken or missing. Gutters were cracked and no longer standing in their proper place. A tiny grey mouse at the kitchen window-sill was standing on its hind legs, nibbling on something, and fixated on me with beady red eyes. Momma was probably spinning in her grave now.
The rolled green waterhose was still connected to its rusted spigot. It had been leaking, what, all these years? Mud was packed around the back porch steps, wood rotted and bricks crumbled. Mold crawled high upon the exterior cream walls. It was devastation at its best. It was devastation at its worst.
Head down, I decided it was time to leave. The construction crew would arrive soon to raze the house. My own childhood home. The place where I grew up with two parents, a brother and sisters. How many people can say that today? Parents divorce. There are single Moms and Dads. Some brothers and sisters don't even know each other. All my memories weren't good but they were mine. Memories were my only family now.
I rounded the corner, walked down the driveway and eased back into my vehicle. I glanced back at the big, sad crying eyes of Momma and Daddy's bedroom window. They were all there. Waving, stoic looks on their grubby faces.
"Goodbye," I whispered as I started the engine. "I love you all."
Yes, the old house stood dilapidated and full of memories.
© Melissa Andres
#old #house #dilapidated #memories #family #love #relationships #heartbreak
The old house stood dilapidated and full of memories.
I shoved my bare hands deep into my trouser pockets. The cool autumn breeze had turned colder and I chastised myself for not wearing a sweater. I knew I was coming here today, out in the elements, why hadn't I worn a warmer outfit?
The driveway was a zigzag of cracks and dotted with dried bird poop and ancient oil stains where Daddy used to work on that darned lime green pickup truck.
Oh, Daddy.
He would be so disappointed if he could see the overgrowth of grass in the yard. He had been so meticulous when it came to his lawn. It needed a good mowing and edging. The bushes were running a muck and the trees had grown way too close to the roof. Daddy would have never allowed that to happen.
Long, rectangular windows in the front, Momma and Daddy's bedroom, looked like big, sad, crying eyes. I knew how they felt. Momma had shed many a tear in that room. She thought none of us kids knew, but we did.
The heavy, wooden, turquoise-colored door was faded and peeling, hanging haphazardly on one hinge. It creaked out an ominous cry as I stepped inside.
To the left stood a coat closet. Empty now save a few wire coat hangers. The living room was devoid of furniture only to be replaced by a plethora of dusty cobwebs. I looked down at the crunchy, outdated, golden-yellow shag carpet beneath my feet. Yuck. I had always hated that carpet, even as a kid. And there was the orange spot where my older sister Abigail tried to scrub up the paint she had spilled. Momma was horrified. I felt a smile play across my lips.
Down the hall, my little brother Benji's room was on the right. His ceiling was pooched inward, like it may burst open at any moment. Water damage was evident. A solitary, threadbare rug lay in the center of the room. Lonely. Forlorn. A quiet yet impactful statement. Funny how that simple rug seemed to describe him. A young boy gone too soon. Drugs just cannot combat bullies.
Abigail and Charlene's room, also on the right, was at the end of the hallway. I used to stay awake at night listening to them talk and giggle about boys. And I used to stay awake at night listening to them cry about boys. What were those boys' names again? Hmm ... there was Deke, Elston, Hank and John ... Had those boys pined away for my sisters after their breakups? After they moved away and married?
Then I noticed the shattered window. Another smile slashed across my mouth. I recalled another shattered window. The exact same window. My best friend Felice and I were in the fourth grade and had been playing ball. You can imagine what happened next. She hit the ball so hard. Harder than I had ever seen someone hit a baseball ever in my whole life. It smashed through the glass with a tremendous boom. Felice shoved the bat in my hand and hightailed it down the street toward home. She ran faster than I had seen anyone run in my whole life. Weird that she was now a lawyer and one of her sons was a professional baseball player.
The next bedroom seemed so small. I shared it with Gloria. Lord how we used to fight. Petty little things used to light a fire beneath the both of us. She cut all the hair off my Barbie doll so I let the air out of her bicycle tires. She tore pages out of my Nancy Drew Mysteries so I flushed her homework down the toilet. Momma and Daddy both went round and round with us. I'm surprised I'm not still grounded to this day. I noticed something on the far wall. Writing? I squinted. Huh? Small block letters. "Heather is a heathen." My hand flew to my mouth and I laughed out loud. It was right behind where Gloria's bed would have been. I never knew she had written it.
The kitchen was on the other side of the house. A triangular-patterened linoleum was dirty with gunk and grime, sealed in tight beneath an earwax yellow buildup. Chunks crumbled beneath my heels. There was no scratched kitchen table. No chairs. No pictures. Only one long nail protruding from the wall next to the light switch. I could see the outline. The paddle. Momma and Daddy both used the paddle on us. All of us. Sometimes I knew why. Sometimes we deserved it. I don't know about other times. Maybe we blinked too loud or something.
I remembered the profanity-laced arguments. I remembered the bruises, the welts. I remembered the time Daddy broke Abigail's arm because she had struggled. I remembered the time Momma had to take Charlene to get stitches because the paddle had sliced into her flesh. I threw my hands up to my ears as I remembered my sisters' bloodcurdling and very agonizing screams. I was lucky, I did not have to face their wrath often.
A couple steps forward brought me to the place where the stove used to be. Momma cooked many a delicious meal at that stove. Fried chicken. Hamburger. Yummy pork sausage and creamed potatoes. She certainly knew how to stretch a dollar when it came to feeding her young 'uns.
Oh, Momma.
She would probably be pleased if she saw me today. A little on the plump side. She always said a healthy appetite was a sign of gratitude. I did not know about that. I just thought maybe I was, now, in a better place, mentally and spiritually.
Somehow I ended up in the back yard. A half-acre of jungle reared its ugly head in greeting. Weeds almost as tall as myself waved their lackadaisical greeting. Daddy's vegetable garden was no longer in existence. Our swing set was a mere pile of twisted metal but I could hear the little girls as they giggled and shouted.
"Higher, Abigail! Go higher."
"No, I'm afraid."
"You're a chicken. Bwauk, bwauk."
I could almost see Benji standing there, knees bent, flapping his "wings". Abigail's white cotton dress flapping in the wind and Charlene sticking her tongue out, taunting. Gloria was running back and forth, back and forth in her dirty bare feet, just daring Abs to hit her. I closed my eyes. Ahhh, there it was the eeee, eeee, eeee sound of the chains as the plastic blue seat went up and down, up and down.
As my eyelids reluctantly rose, I noticed Daddy's warped wooden birdhouse. Oh how it had frightened me. No, not the birdhouse really but the owl who had made the thing its home. It watched us kids play from its little peek-a-boo hole with glowing orange eyes. I had raced through the sliding glass door screaming at the top of my lungs. Next thing I knew Daddy was shooting it with his deer rifle. How was I to know it was just a baby? He left it dying in the dirt right at our toes. I couldn't stand seeing the ants devour the poor thing. So, we dug a hole with our sandbox shovels and had an impromptu funeral. Gloria's speech was endearing:
"Dear God, today we bring you this owl from our birdhouse. Now he is coming to your house to live. Please take good care of him. Give him lots of bugs and worms and whatever else owls eat. And when he asks you 'hooo', tell him that we, I mean, Abigail, Charlene, Gloria, Heather and Benjamin Dobbs loved him first. Amen."
My tears were a mix of happy, sorrow, anger and frustration. I turned back to the house, really truly noticing for the first time, its state of disrepair. Roof shingles were either broken or missing. Gutters were cracked and no longer standing in their proper place. A tiny grey mouse at the kitchen window-sill was standing on its hind legs, nibbling on something, and fixated on me with beady red eyes. Momma was probably spinning in her grave now.
The rolled green waterhose was still connected to its rusted spigot. It had been leaking, what, all these years? Mud was packed around the back porch steps, wood rotted and bricks crumbled. Mold crawled high upon the exterior cream walls. It was devastation at its best. It was devastation at its worst.
Head down, I decided it was time to leave. The construction crew would arrive soon to raze the house. My own childhood home. The place where I grew up with two parents, a brother and sisters. How many people can say that today? Parents divorce. There are single Moms and Dads. Some brothers and sisters don't even know each other. All my memories weren't good but they were mine. Memories were my only family now.
I rounded the corner, walked down the driveway and eased back into my vehicle. I glanced back at the big, sad crying eyes of Momma and Daddy's bedroom window. They were all there. Waving, stoic looks on their grubby faces.
"Goodbye," I whispered as I started the engine. "I love you all."
Yes, the old house stood dilapidated and full of memories.
© Melissa Andres
#old #house #dilapidated #memories #family #love #relationships #heartbreak
