Writing 101, Day Eleven: Size Matters
Today, tell us about the home you lived in when you were twelve. For your twist, pay attention to — and vary — your sentence lengths.
My home was different. Placed in the middle of a working class suburb with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, lounge, dining room and nearly three-quarters of an acre of garden, it could have been heaven. It was not!
I loved the garden; the freedom to run and run as far as I wanted with numerous hiding places. Bees humming contentedly in the dry tropical sun. Me climbing the jacaranda tree and using skipping ropes to pretend it was my own home.
The house had a beautiful red slate roof with a chimney to the left. It spread it’s large shadow across the centre of the land. It wasn’t overly big, especially for a family of four. Sitting squat in its bungalow setting, it rooted the shrubs and rose bushes planted under the windows. Our dogs spent their lazy days roaming the garden and the seven cats lounged wherever they could find a quiet spot, usually close to my father. He attracted animals as well as he repelled humans. Duchess, our female duck, ruled over everyone. She had the rights to steal lettuce leaves from our refrigerator at meal times.
We planted fruit trees around the edge of the property and I remember the warm squishiness of the red soil under my fingers as we filled the holes with the young saplings. I miss the feeling of warmth under my fingers and knowing it was good clean dirt! The happy memories of running free and being young. Or the true memory of being trapped in a suburban life with over-protective, perfectionists who expected their children to adhere to every rule without fail. Houses – the facade of a home with the truth hidden behind closed doors.