Tucked behind towering walls of lush green trees, down a velvet flanked path of stone, sits a proud little house. Cracked and peeling white siding is adorned with a gray shingled roof top that protects the inhabitants from the bitter frost and sweet rays of sunshine. On the right there is a tin little garden shed that becomes lost in a web of green vines that snake over the doors making them invisible to the unfamiliar eye like a little fairy house. On the opposite side sits a flower bed with its multiple tree stumps, each individually plucked from the crop fields and placed for my grandma to carve shelves into in order to display her multitude of blooming flowers. A rainbow of petals and feathers spread throughout the front lawn that reflect in the bright golden rays of sun as birds hop from multiple feeders with a constant titter of melodious laughter. From a distance the house is just like a human being, put together neatly, but up close it has cracks and imperfections that build upon what the house means to those within its walls. The white paint on the siding is peeling screaming out for another new paint job; the forty year old roof with its patches keeping the ones inside dry and out of the cold. The concrete is chipped, cracked, and rugged. To run barefoot like a child is hazardous, yet I do just that every summer to taste the sweet rebellion. My childish mind matured here during the countless days of summer vacation, it stills matures here, and I learned things I could never back home in the sweltering heat. Away from the constant stress of homework and complicated friendships and confusing relationships and the pressuring judgment that lie in my Arizona home. Here I grew to love the smell of fresh cut grass, the beauty in eating fresh from the garden, and the simplicity of quietness. There is no buzz of traffic. There is no light carry of voices. There is only the solitude that, year after year, I find beautiful.

Through the screen door with its insides regularly falling out and screen full of cuts, past mounds of dirty laundry, telling tales of the day’s adventures, past the bills that always bring the unwanted stress, there is a yellow kitchen. Not the yellow of sunshine but that of age. The creaky linoleum floor is faded and antiquated from the hundreds of feet that trampled it day after day in the hustle and bustle of staking a claim on the steaming food for one’s watering mouth. On this floor is where I would dance and skip through the flour and spices I spilled as my grandma taught me a new recipe, or helped me perfect one we have done before. I have spilt many a drink on the tattered yellow floor adding a new stain along with a new memory. The matching yellow counters are scared with the indents of knife blades, from the countless meals prepared in the beloved kitchen. Not once have I ever been in this room and has it not smelled of something that would cause my stomach to erupt into a chorus of growls. The white oven is beaten and rusting on the corner; it has been my ever reliant friend as I struggled to perfect my different home- made cakes and cookies. The stove top has taken many hits in the multiple skirmishes lead by my learning hand, such as the battle of overflowing chocolate sauce and the invasion of grease splatters from my fried zucchini. The semi- sweet chocolate colored cabinets have coats of grease from Sunday dinners and the annual holiday parties. The crank shutting windows are adorned with thin white lace curtains. Occasionally the summer air is allowed in to release the heat emanating from the pasta and chicken and sweet corn and soups and so much more cooking in cloud of delicious, mouth watering vapor. All these hand crafted pieces of love and scrumptious comfort are piled atop a glass Longaberger plate and devoured at the dining table.

Never have I seen such a basic object take on so much meaning and hold so many memories. The faint, and sometimes deep, impressions of knives decorate the faux wood, the plastic cord that encircles the oval table is held on by strategically placed pieces of packing tape, and crumbs of past meals are stuck between the different sections of the table. It is closer to the ground then most modern dining tables, which is the perfect height for my grandma to work on being that she is a meager height of five feet, and an inconvenience for me being seven inches taller. This table has seen the messes of four generations each equally as hungry and rambunctious. It is on this table I spent my early Saturday mornings learning the craft of baking, attempting to perfect my grandma’s yeast dough for cinnamon rolls, caramel rolls, pecan rolls, doughnuts, and dinner rolls. Every year I iced my annual Fourth of July cake, growing frustrated when the icing tasted to much like powdered sugar or when it was not the right consistency or the swirls slid down the side. On this table are the ghosts of successful sweet corn crops, along with the drippings of home- made fried chicken that leaves remnants of its spices on the back of your tongue. This table has seen so many happy birthdays and holidays it has become a member of the family whom uses its surface every single day.
By the head of the dining table there is a simple brown door with a worn brass knob that matches the kitchen cabinetry. Through this door and down a flight of creaky wooden stairs covered in blue dirty rugs, is the home of my fondness childhood memories. The wooden rafters are exposed along with the metal ventilation ducts and electrical cables. Immediately to the left there is a small room without a door with shelves filled with assorted home- canned goods from my grandma’s garden such as tomatoes, green beans, carrots, beets, and potatoes. The air is crisp and it smells of the wood burning furnace that once warmed the rooms in the floor above. The concrete is brisk and concealed occasionally with scraps of carpet that are christened with stains put there by adolescent girls pretending to be waitresses. The walls are lined with sewing cupboards and my grandma’s collection of Longaberger baskets; in the middle of the main room a cobalt blue velvet curtain separates two beds from a third bed against the main wall. The king bed is dressed in red sitting against the main wall, the twin bed sits angled in the corner decorated in Scooby Doo, and the full sized bed is nestled next to the new furnace covered in a handmade quilt. In the corner adjacent to the twin bed there is a wooden bar my father made in his high school shop class, it is behind this bar I pretended to own a store, restaurant, bank, and whatever my naive mind could concoct. It was in this basement my cousin taught me the differences between the different kinds of semis, tractors, trucks, and cars, as well as how Dodge is the only respectable brand of vehicle to drive. It was in this basement where I played dress up with my little sister and the girl from down the street. It was in this basement where I snuck jars of canned fruits and vegetables for my afternoon snack. It was in this basement where I spent my childhood afternoons being a kid hidden from the drama and constant struggle of the Phoenix city back home.

This beaten white farm house nestled in the winding back roads of central Illinois is my constant reminder of a different life with simpler ideals and worries. It encases some of my fondness memories, learning experiences, and stories. As I aged I began to put more difficult memories here. During these times I would wish I was a child once again playing pretend in the cool air of the basement, or licking the bowl clean after making a new batter, or eating an ear of corn with a huge grin plastered to my red flushed face. Even now as my life has seemed to have turned into inescapable drama, I go back to the little white farm house hoping to relive the simpler memories of past summers.