The Little House on The Corner of The Block

It was passed down four generations. It was a living museum. From the outside, the house was very ugly. The windows had holes for the wind to rush in and out through the morning and night. The screen door was beat up and off its hinges. There was cracked paint that covered the roof as it sagged. As you stepped inside, the house was no prettier. It was very small. The house looked as it hasn’t been touched since the 1960s.

There was never anything bought more modernly than the 1960s.

Everything was original or redecorated vintage, like the house itself. It was no longer alive, but the old, vintage wall clock continued to keep time. All the furnisher was covered in plastic, causing you to sweat only seconds after sitting on them. A dreary rug hand made by my great-great-grandmother sat in the middle of the living room filled with dust. Spider webs were scattered around the house from the celling down to the floor.

The walls were made of rotting wood and peeled paint. There was a dining room with an antique table set. That room was called “The grandmother room.” It was fragile, and kids were not allowed in there. The kitchen floor was cracked. The stove was once white but now is brown from the rust. The backyard was filled with trees like a forest.

As you walked upstairs, the stairs creaked like an old wooden door. There was a raggedy velvet rug that carpeted the hall.

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There were three bedrooms. The bedroom at the end of the hall was the most historical. On the walls lived two huge photographs; one was black and white and the other one was in color. The photograph in black and white was of three amazing women: my great-great-grandmother, my great-grandmother, and my grandmother. The photograph in color was of the 3rd and 4th generation; their great-great-grandchildren, great-grandchildren, grandchildren, and children.

As people walk by, all they see is an ugly, meaningless, and abandoned house. A house that was broken down with disrepair. To my family and I, this house is the closest thing to perfection. Many years ago, the house had a life of its own. Tiny, happy children had run up the same stairs that now creak and through the velvet carpeted halls, until they were no longer tiny. The backyard was a red and yellow rose garden. Sunlight beamed into the house through the windows. Throughout the house, stories were shared. As the family has gotten older, our stories got longer. Inside the house rest a legacy of life, memories, faith, laughter, and love. The house always seemed to have something about it that set it apart from all the rest. It was a home away from home.