The house is old and sturdy. It was built in 1925 by pioneers or hutterites or something. My dad has been knocking down walls and building new stuff in since the day they moved in here, and it's in a constant state of evolution. Layers of floral wallpaper have been stripped to reveal other floral wallpaper beneath, each layer giving insight to a different decade, and a different decorator who wasn't aware that it's best to remove the old before applying the new.
Doors and walls have been rearranged to open up more living space, and my dad's handiwork is visible in the hand-wrought cupboards, bookshelves, banisters, and kitchen table, not to mention the brand new addition and comfortable deck. It's a bizarre combination. In some places the haphazard broken down dilapidation of an old, old house, in some places an artist's rendition of a countryside escape.
The only door in the house, besides the one that leads outside, is the one that leads to the bathroom, and it has no lock. Come to think of it, I don't think the front door does either.
Everywhere I look is the clutter of random trinkets and souvenirs from my childhood. Between the kitchen and living room hangs a large wooden airplane propellor that used to hang in the cabin I grew up in. Beside the couch, a pole that reaches from floor to ceiling, from which sprout two very 70's looking lamps, brown and white, with gold decoration. This used to stand in my grandmother's apartment before she died. Above the stairs hangs the muzzle loader my dad built, and in his bedroom hang five more rifles of various sizes and models, which he also built. There are more guns in the cabinet, including a .44 magnum given to him by the widow of his recently deceased friend.
It's now been several hours since I came in from outside and I've made my bed on the couch, beside the lamps, facing the muzzle loader. Across from me, my brother has passed out on a very small, very old blue couch with bright green embroidery. This couch used to stand in my parents' bedroom, and I used to sleep on it when I was too scared to sleep by myself. A clock in the kitchen is ticking quite loudly. It would be completely dark but for the blue glow of the tv, by which I am writing as I reflect on the day.
Doors and walls have been rearranged to open up more living space, and my dad's handiwork is visible in the hand-wrought cupboards, bookshelves, banisters, and kitchen table, not to mention the brand new addition and comfortable deck. It's a bizarre combination. In some places the haphazard broken down dilapidation of an old, old house, in some places an artist's rendition of a countryside escape.
The only door in the house, besides the one that leads outside, is the one that leads to the bathroom, and it has no lock. Come to think of it, I don't think the front door does either.
Everywhere I look is the clutter of random trinkets and souvenirs from my childhood. Between the kitchen and living room hangs a large wooden airplane propellor that used to hang in the cabin I grew up in. Beside the couch, a pole that reaches from floor to ceiling, from which sprout two very 70's looking lamps, brown and white, with gold decoration. This used to stand in my grandmother's apartment before she died. Above the stairs hangs the muzzle loader my dad built, and in his bedroom hang five more rifles of various sizes and models, which he also built. There are more guns in the cabinet, including a .44 magnum given to him by the widow of his recently deceased friend.
It's now been several hours since I came in from outside and I've made my bed on the couch, beside the lamps, facing the muzzle loader. Across from me, my brother has passed out on a very small, very old blue couch with bright green embroidery. This couch used to stand in my parents' bedroom, and I used to sleep on it when I was too scared to sleep by myself. A clock in the kitchen is ticking quite loudly. It would be completely dark but for the blue glow of the tv, by which I am writing as I reflect on the day.
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