Hear the Writer Roar! Tuesday: Home Sweet Home by Ann Littlefield, My Mom

Hello friends, I have something very special to share with you today. My lovely mother wrote a short story when she was younger. It’s a true story with just a few embellishments. The story involves my dearly departed Dad (Jim) and mom, when I was a baby. I hope you enjoy. Do NOT copy this. You can however share the link. Thanks!

God bless & remember the High King lives! ~Amber Dover

Link to Mom’s website: http://lorettalittlefield.wordpress.com/

DadMomMe

Home Sweet Home

by Ann Littlefield (formerly known as Ann Way)

   Sitting deep in the country woods, the house was much different from the city. The long driveway beckoned us to come and stay awhile. Jim and I walked up the brick steps and into the large screened-in porch. An old swing held with small chains was swaying back and forth from the warm breeze that day. Through the windows we could see the large rooms and long hall. In the living room was a wood-burning heater. The front bedroom had a fireplace that appeared to have been used many times. We were a young couple then, looking for a place to raise our family.

 “This house is over one hundred years old,” said Mr. Bailey, the executor of the estate. “The Robersons raised fourteen head of children here. We will be selling one day but not for some time though.”

  Jim took one last glance at the old house and announced, “This is the place.”

  The house rented for fifty dollars a month. We could not wait to move in. We packed everything we owned in our old blue pick-up truck. We added a rocking chair on the porch and set up the baby’s crib in the living room. I washed the linoleum floors down with pure pine oil. In the kitchen, our small wood table and chairs fit comfortably in the corner near a window. The sinks were large and the stove was wide. Cooks in the earlier days must have filled the kitchen with scents that only came with long hard work. Even so, I placed my microwave on a small table that was probably used for a cutting board, or rolling our biscuits.

 Exhausted, we fell into bed that night. The wood was crackling in the fireplace and casting shadows on the wall. As I pulled the heavy quilt that Grandmother made over my granny-gown, all I could think was, “This is the life.”

 One cold morning, I gathered small limbs for the fire in the wood-burning heater. I came across some bigger wood and put them all inside. The fire rose up so hot that the tin pipe to the heater turned cherry red. Jim came in and asked me what kind of wood I put in the heater.

“What kind?” I replied.

“You must have put all the lighter I had stacked up in there,” he responded.

 I had never considered myself a city girl; but from the funny smile on his face, I knew I had much to learn. Two years passed, and we were feeling more and more settled into our home. One day when I was hanging the clothes out on the line Mr. Bailey drove up. Jim was chopping wood and went to talk to him. He found out they were going to sell the house. It would be auctioned off in two months.

  That night, sitting out on the porch, I heard a panther in the distance howling and the sound of a whippoorwill calling. The panther howling made me feel sad. I knew one day we would have to move; now the reality of it was here.

 The morning of the auction came. We peered out our bedroom window at the people that were gathering in our front yard. The noise almost drowned out the sound of the squirrels fighting over an acorn on the roof.

  We had always felt a peace here as if someone was watching over us, protecting us. In our sadness we realized that though we felt like part of the Robersons, it was not true. It was time to move, to grow, and to put down our own roots.

 The house was sold, but we went back and saw it being torn down. The owners left the outline of the old house and used the exact floor plan to rebuild the new house. The original front and back steps were kept to welcome family and friends.

 As I gazed into my fireplace, tears came to my eyes. With grey hair and withered hands, I recalled the many houses I had lived in. But none had ever made me feel quite at home, like the old house. It was like remembering my first true love. I will always cherish the memory of my home sweet home.

 

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