The Little Frame House (standard:other, 1087 words)
Author: Wildstangtoo	Added: Jul 08 2006	Views/Reads: 3136/2063	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Remembering days gone by.

I stop in front of the old farmhouse on my way to work and stare at its
silence.  The paint is cracked and peeling, the wooden porch has rotted 
from age, and the cancerous tin roof would struggle to shed the rain.  
The walls no longer resonate with the laughter and love which abounded 
within the small frame structure. 

My grandparents raised four children there while trying to scrape a
living from the soil.  There was no shower, no tub, no bathroom, no 
central heat or air, or no illuminated drive;  just some wood nailed 
atop sawed-off tree trunks.  The paint wasn't renewed every few years, 
and in places the worn linoleum was held to the floor by tacks.  A cast 
iron wood stove, which sat on a piece of tin in the living room, 
provided heat for the house in the winter, and two oscillating fans 
moved the hot air in the summer. 

Chickens roamed freely in the yard.  An old hound slept under the house.
 The cistern held life's nectar within its brick walls, and a chain 
tied to a bucket provided a cool drink.  Cloths fluttered on a wire 
stretched between two poles and soaked up the fragrance of nature's 
heat.  A tractor stood in the shed ready to plow the fields.  Its red 
paint faded, tires cracked, and the seat cushion had been replaced by 
an old pair of jeans. 

There were Christmases when relatives would arrive from the cities and
Grandma would cook more food than an army could eat.  Coconut pies, 
puddings, dressing, chicken, and an endless list of vegetables and 
breads overflowed the table.  The men folk would sit at the table and 
the women and children would take their plates to the living room.  
Goblets full of ice tea rounded out the meal. 

And though Santa Clause may be a fictitious character created to amuse
young minds, I met him on a cold rainy December night in that house.  
He placed me on his knee, laughed in his unmistakable style, and gave 
me presents he brought from the North Pole; the very ones I had 
requested in my letter.  Even when my cousins told me it was grandpa, 
they couldn't convince me that the man in the red suit, with a white 
beard, white hair, and carrying a bag of toys, was anyone other than 
Old Saint Nick himself. 

I remember sultry summer nights lying in bed listening to the howl of a
coyote, or a lone vehicle chugging along the dusty dirt road.  The 
doors were always left open and only screen wire protected us from the 
mosquitoes and the bugs.  Beams of moonlight penetrated tiny openings 
in the walls and danced across the wooden floor.  Some found their way 
through the cracks and disturbed the sleepy hound underneath.  His head 
would bump against the floor when he moved to a darker place.  The 
sound would startle me and I would sit upright in the bed. 

Wide-eyed and frightened I would stare around the dark room and listen
for the noise that had abruptly ended my sleep. I prayed that the 
ghastly being, which I knew lurked to devour me, would spare my life 
and satisfy his appetite on one of the chickens or the old hound.  I 
would pull the covers over my head and peek out with each chirp of a 
cricket, bellow of a bullfrog, blood-curdling screech of an owl, or the 
splat of a June bug as it crashed against the window screen.  Sweat 
would pour from my body as I lay under a mound of blankets, afraid to 
move, afraid to look, yet reluctant to wake anyone for fear of being 
called a scardy cat.  But eventually, the heat would overcome my fear 
and I would close my eyes, throw the cover off, and present myself to 
the waiting creature. 

Summer days were spent walking along creek banks in search of turtles,
bouncing a rubber ball off the side of the barn, playing Annie-Over, or 
enjoying a swim in the cool water of a stock pond.  Sometimes,  I would 
walk barefoot to the field and watch my grandfather plow.  I still 
remember the feel of the moist earth squishing between my toes as I 
stepped through the rows of corn and cotton.  Time was endless.  There 
was no clock to punch, meeting to attend, appointment to keep, or boss 
to appease.  Just a few chores that had to be accomplished to insure 
that life would continue at least one more day. 

When evening came and supper was finished, we would move to the front
porch and watch the sun nestle into its bed.  Grandpa would sit in the 
same wooden chair, which had been repaired more than once with bailing 
wire, take out a chew of Days Work, lean back against the house, and 


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