I moved into the home I grew up in when I was three years old. I was an only child at the time. My mother remarried and we all moved in together in a three bedroom ranch style home. The third bedroom became a toy room for me. It was filled with dolls, games, a giant chalkboard, stuffed animals, a play kitchen, any toy a little girl could dream of. As I grew older the toys I asked for varied and my toy room looked different year after year. Every summer we had a garage sale. My mother and I would go through all of my toys and sell the ones I had lost interest in.
When I was eight years old my mom and step dad told me I was going to be a big sister the following spring. It was very excited to be a big sister and very hopeful the baby would be a girl. I expected a lot of things would change with a baby in the house but I did not dawn on me that I wouldn’t be able to keep my play room. At first, I was obnoxious about having to sacrifice my toy room. I could not fathom having to cram my favorite toys in a small toy box to keep in my room. There were many toys I was not allowed to keep. The giant chalkboard was one of them, along with the play kitchen. They were just too big to have in my room. My mother and I went through my toys one by one. I surprised myself at how easily it was for me to sort through them, discarding some, and giving many to charity. I have to tell you though the bribe I received made it very easy. My mother told me if I would not throw a fit about not keeping the toys they would get a TV for my room.
I immediately changed my tune about the toys. Almost instantly I was too big for toys. It seemed in the matter of one line spoken from my mother I had grown in years. I was definitely big enough to take care of my own TV. I was going to be a big sister after all. I didn’t need toys now, I would be busy taking care of my younger brother or sister or watching my new TV. My world shrank to those two options as if I would never want to pick up a Barbie Doll again, or my giant chalkboard would not be missed when the neighbor kids came in to play school if it was raining.
When my little brother was born I did stay busy helping and I took pride in being the big sister. I am sure I had my moments at times about not having my toy room, but being the spoiled brat I was I am cure my parents gave me something to keep my mind off of it.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
My wonderful home! Blog 8
For 18 years I lived in an amazing house. It was a huge, brown, and warm house that sat right smack dab in the middle of 9acres. You can’t miss the sound of our baahing sheep that reside in the huge pasture that sat next to the huge 2 car garage. It’s as if they were welcoming every person that came into our drive, to me they were extremely annoying. I soon found out that my dad had gotten them for me to show in 4-H, I was completely not interested in this, so they soon found home in the barn. Every spring the mammas produced beautiful baby lambs and every year I got to name them. That seemed to be the only time I was interested was when they were babies. The garage holds my dad’s and stepmom’s Harleys, their summer cars, and so many tools! There is a huge porch that wrapped around my house and also connected the back breezeway to our pool. That pool was something when I was young. It was so nice to dip into the cool fresh water of our underground swimming pool after a long softball game in the scorching heat. Those memories were precious to me. When I was younger I would pack a lunch and some dog treats for my golden retriever, Jesse. The two of us would venture out into the woods, pretending to be adventurous explorers. She always stayed by side never to let anything harm me. We’d play in the creek, find cool new rocks on the creekbed, and just have the time of our lives. She was all I needed when I was young. It’s hard going to my dad’s house now because soon that house will be sold. He too has moved on a bought a new house. The for sale sign sits in the yard, sometimes I want to yank it out, but that house no longer fits for my dad and stepmom. I come home frequently, usually to grab some of my dad’s home cooked French fries, and to see my best friend of 13 years, Jesse. It’s hard to see the gray wash that has covered her face, and to see her slowly saunter over to where I am sitting, just to get a back rub. It seems like only little time has passed since we were exploring the acres of my home together and playing tag in the pasture. But seeing her reminds me that it was forever ago. I sometimes wonder to myself why I chose to live in my apartment in Crawfordsville? It doesn’t seem as homey or inviting as my dad’s house does. I feel grownup, but somehow I don’t’ feel as if it’s right. I just wish I could go back and feel the sunshine warmly touch my face through the wooded trees, with Jesse splishing and splashing in the creek; and not having a care in the world!
Childhood Home
Most people, when asked about their childhood home, will most likely talk about fanciful homes of grandeur and of a loving nature. My own is not like this, yes it was a house, a single level ranch style home with a large bay window that let the sun in as it sets in the evening. Though to most it would seem lovely and an inviting place, I much preferred to be left alone, by my family and the rest of the world. I would always travel through the kitchen, into the laundry room and pull open the warped door out into the very weather unfriendly garage attached to the side of the home. I would then turn to the wall next to the door and descend a flight of steel tipped concrete stairs, leading down at near a 75 degree angle like a cliff into the dark abyss. This would be my sanctuary, and though it changed greatly over the years it was still mine.
When it first started out it was nothing more then molded walls and small pools of water with shattered tiles and nails all across the floor. There was no real lighting save for the lamps I brought down, and the old dusted shelves in the adjacent room were coated in dust and web. All of this visible through a wall that had quite literally rotted into the floor. A single pillar in the center of the room manages to hold the heating ducts up from the floor and looked as if it was the only thing keeping the floor above from coming down.
Off to the side of the room was an old pool table who's matted playing area and worn pockets made the game a little more entertaining when I needed a distraction. This brings to mind the old cracked pool balls that I used to play with. Whenever my little sister got brave enough to come into the bomb shelter, as I jokingly called it way back when, we would usually just talk or toss chips of old broken tiles across the room.
One Christmas that all changed, and while me and my sister were gone at our Grandpa's for several weeks my mother and father were busy hiring contractors, painters and designers. On Christmas when we returned we had come to see a surprise, my sanctuary had been drastically changed. A new ceiling was now in place with lights that lit the room up spectacularly. The floor was now a single color tile and spanned the entire room. The walls separating the two rooms from each other suddenly had a fresh coat of paint and a reinforced structure to go with the new basement. The pool table whose cracks and old finish had been revamped with new carpeting and pockets and even a stamp on the end of it declaring it as our own.
While the rest of the family celebrated the new entertainment room I became worried that I had lost my hideaway from the world, that I would find no peace anymore within the darkness. I had no need to fear, for today while I wait to find my own home, in and of itself my hideaway, I am alone. The basement with all its fresh paint, lights, mirrors, sofa, chairs, tables, TVs, Pianos, the pool table, and weight bench is all mine once more. No one comes down into it anymore and I am alone, save for the knock of my sister at the door once in a years time. I sit down here and work, writing and designing, planning and building for my future in my own way, away from all the distractions that hunger for other's attentions. I sit here in my sanctuary able to be free of mind and spirit and not have to worry about the thoughts and deeds of others. This is my childhood home.
When it first started out it was nothing more then molded walls and small pools of water with shattered tiles and nails all across the floor. There was no real lighting save for the lamps I brought down, and the old dusted shelves in the adjacent room were coated in dust and web. All of this visible through a wall that had quite literally rotted into the floor. A single pillar in the center of the room manages to hold the heating ducts up from the floor and looked as if it was the only thing keeping the floor above from coming down.
Off to the side of the room was an old pool table who's matted playing area and worn pockets made the game a little more entertaining when I needed a distraction. This brings to mind the old cracked pool balls that I used to play with. Whenever my little sister got brave enough to come into the bomb shelter, as I jokingly called it way back when, we would usually just talk or toss chips of old broken tiles across the room.
One Christmas that all changed, and while me and my sister were gone at our Grandpa's for several weeks my mother and father were busy hiring contractors, painters and designers. On Christmas when we returned we had come to see a surprise, my sanctuary had been drastically changed. A new ceiling was now in place with lights that lit the room up spectacularly. The floor was now a single color tile and spanned the entire room. The walls separating the two rooms from each other suddenly had a fresh coat of paint and a reinforced structure to go with the new basement. The pool table whose cracks and old finish had been revamped with new carpeting and pockets and even a stamp on the end of it declaring it as our own.
While the rest of the family celebrated the new entertainment room I became worried that I had lost my hideaway from the world, that I would find no peace anymore within the darkness. I had no need to fear, for today while I wait to find my own home, in and of itself my hideaway, I am alone. The basement with all its fresh paint, lights, mirrors, sofa, chairs, tables, TVs, Pianos, the pool table, and weight bench is all mine once more. No one comes down into it anymore and I am alone, save for the knock of my sister at the door once in a years time. I sit down here and work, writing and designing, planning and building for my future in my own way, away from all the distractions that hunger for other's attentions. I sit here in my sanctuary able to be free of mind and spirit and not have to worry about the thoughts and deeds of others. This is my childhood home.
My Home as a child
I remember my families first home very vividly because I had lived there from the time I was born until my eighth grade year. My house had tan colored siding with maroon trim and shutters. It wasn't a big house but it wasn't small either. I can remember my parents both being very proud of that house because they bought a ran down house and fixed it up into a nice home. I think that they felt like they had accomplished something because my parents were of a very young age when they had my sisters and I. For them to be able to buy a house and fix it up really nice was really something because they were around my age when they did all of this.
The inside of the house was decorated very nicely. I remember that our kitchen had hard wood floors, the walls were tan and bordered by country apples. The kitchen cabinets matched the floor almost exact. Everything in our kitchen was done in country scenes and apples. I think this was kind of a fad a few years back. I had my own room. It wasn't big, but I liked the idea of getting away from my younger sisters. The two of them shared a much larger room.
Our house was located on the out skirts of Indianapolis in a small, but crowded neighborhood. We had neighbors all around us. Ones behind us, in front of us, and on both sides of us. My favorite neighbor was Ed. He was an older man and had two big dogs that I liked to play with . I loved playing with his dogs because I had always wanted one of my own, but my parents wouldn't ever let me get one. I remember that Ed used to always bring my sisters and I box turtles and frogs. I have no idea why this amused us, but it did. The funniest memory that I have about playing with the turtles is when my younger sister, Brittany, kissed it and it bit her top lip. She was screaming and the turtle wouldn't let go of her lip. When it did finally fall off she had a triangular shaped mark on her top lip.
I loved living in a neighborhood because I always had other kids to play with. I used to go play baseball or whatever kind of game we wanted to with some of the neighborhood kids that were around my age at the time. Most of them were boys, but it was still a good time. I used to go on bike rides through my neighbor hood and I remember learning to ride my bike at the elementary school nearby.
When my parents told me that we were moving to the country I was devastated. I loved living in the city. I was a total city girl and now I was being forced to live out in the boonies. When we first moved out this way I absolutely hated it because I missed everything about out old house. My friends, my school, and most of all our house. Now that I have lived in the country for five years I don't think I could ever live in a city again. Its weird to me that I went from hating the country to absolutely loving it.
The inside of the house was decorated very nicely. I remember that our kitchen had hard wood floors, the walls were tan and bordered by country apples. The kitchen cabinets matched the floor almost exact. Everything in our kitchen was done in country scenes and apples. I think this was kind of a fad a few years back. I had my own room. It wasn't big, but I liked the idea of getting away from my younger sisters. The two of them shared a much larger room.
Our house was located on the out skirts of Indianapolis in a small, but crowded neighborhood. We had neighbors all around us. Ones behind us, in front of us, and on both sides of us. My favorite neighbor was Ed. He was an older man and had two big dogs that I liked to play with . I loved playing with his dogs because I had always wanted one of my own, but my parents wouldn't ever let me get one. I remember that Ed used to always bring my sisters and I box turtles and frogs. I have no idea why this amused us, but it did. The funniest memory that I have about playing with the turtles is when my younger sister, Brittany, kissed it and it bit her top lip. She was screaming and the turtle wouldn't let go of her lip. When it did finally fall off she had a triangular shaped mark on her top lip.
I loved living in a neighborhood because I always had other kids to play with. I used to go play baseball or whatever kind of game we wanted to with some of the neighborhood kids that were around my age at the time. Most of them were boys, but it was still a good time. I used to go on bike rides through my neighbor hood and I remember learning to ride my bike at the elementary school nearby.
When my parents told me that we were moving to the country I was devastated. I loved living in the city. I was a total city girl and now I was being forced to live out in the boonies. When we first moved out this way I absolutely hated it because I missed everything about out old house. My friends, my school, and most of all our house. Now that I have lived in the country for five years I don't think I could ever live in a city again. Its weird to me that I went from hating the country to absolutely loving it.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Roy Hoffman Essay
There have been a couple of times that I have almost bought a journal to carry in my bag or purse in case there was that one time that I would need it. However, when I look at them I always think to myself the last thing I need is something else to put in my purse, so I put the journal back on the shelf and force myself to walk away. Honestly, the only reason I really want the journal is because I think it is cute, which I know is a very “typical girl” response.
I never have been one to keep a journal. I am not religious at making entries and sometimes it is a month before I write in it again. Then I have so much to put down on paper that I feel I can’t get it written down fast enough, or after a couple of pages I get the “who cares” attitude and just quit. Then my arm and hand always starts to cramp about that point, which is not comfortable at all. Roy Hoffman wrote in his essay that by reading back through his journal entries that he felt he was meeting someone else, like a younger brother. I really liked how he wrote that because I never saw it that way. Whenever I would make journal entry I would read the previous one and it was indeed like reading a story about me or something. By reading this essay it reminded me of something I did in school once.
When I was in seventh grade we made a little time capsule thing. Everyone filled out this paper that asked us what our favorite song was, who was our best friend, what was the fashion trend of that year, and so forth. We also included notes, pictures, drawings and whatever else we wanted to put in there. The teachers put them back in our files or something to hold on to then for us. When we graduated from high school they gave them back to us. To be honest, I had completely forgotten about the project. When I opened the package I was so surprised. Just my handwriting had changed so much that I couldn’t even recognize it. I couldn’t believe how much I had changed in just four years. My favorite song had changed, of course, and even my best friend was different.
After reading this essay I think I will get a small journal to carry with me so I can record my thoughts and observations, and look back at them at a later time and see how much I have grown and improved, whether it be just my writing or my hairstyle.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Keen Eye
Its been cold around here for a few months now. Sometimes I wonder if it will ever be warm again, or if all the plants will grow back. A prime example is this dead, whatever it once was, sitting here in front of the entrance to the college. The container it is held is has very misleading carvings of a warm beautiful sun and of fruits across the entirety of it.
Though from those warm images no life resonates, no hope that the dead plants within will suddenly spring back to their former glory. The pot much like the plants within it, is cold to the touch. They just sit in there, limp with their long dried up leaves hanging over the lip of the pot like an octopuses’ dead tendrils. Even when the wind blows across them there is no life, no movement, not a single sign of hope.
The way the plant is treated isn't much better, what with the half smoked cigarettes and the chewed bubblegum littering its soil. It just seems to make this damned wind even colder then it had been before. The thing looks so depressing and now looking about there isn't much else that would bring any looks of warmth save for the brushed aluminum doors that I am resting against.
Perhaps it will soon be time to go inside. Maybe I should say something about getting the college some evergreens to make the entrance feel more welcoming during the winter season. In fact I think it would really make the place look a little more appealing to be in. College may be far different from High School but damned if this particular building doesn't try its hardest to make it more depressing.
Though from those warm images no life resonates, no hope that the dead plants within will suddenly spring back to their former glory. The pot much like the plants within it, is cold to the touch. They just sit in there, limp with their long dried up leaves hanging over the lip of the pot like an octopuses’ dead tendrils. Even when the wind blows across them there is no life, no movement, not a single sign of hope.
The way the plant is treated isn't much better, what with the half smoked cigarettes and the chewed bubblegum littering its soil. It just seems to make this damned wind even colder then it had been before. The thing looks so depressing and now looking about there isn't much else that would bring any looks of warmth save for the brushed aluminum doors that I am resting against.
Perhaps it will soon be time to go inside. Maybe I should say something about getting the college some evergreens to make the entrance feel more welcoming during the winter season. In fact I think it would really make the place look a little more appealing to be in. College may be far different from High School but damned if this particular building doesn't try its hardest to make it more depressing.
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