Memories from a Country House - Essay Example

The Country House My first-born aunt was frowning, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the acute smell emanating from the still-wet paint or from her now continuous perplexity. “This house should have been rebuilt from scratch,” she complained. “I admit the frame seems to be rigid. Did you check the radiator? Who would think to transform this derelict and fungus-filled house into a country home? Who’s going to take care of this house, anyway?” It was about 80 years ago that my great-grandfather started this house. Its original construction was a total of 33 square meters. There was a very small bedroom and a 7 meter square kitchen. For support, he used sinuous but robust and stout tree trunks that have continued to withstand the test of time. As a result, even the most persistent storms don’t seem to pose much threat. However, after my grandfather was born, my great-grandfather had to start considering where he would place the children to follow. With five more sons, the family ended up moving into a bigger house and this one was left to decay. In spite of my aunt’s complaints, I couldn’t help but love this place. Not only the tremendous family history that was entwined in every branch and trunk that contributed to its construction but the site itself spoke to me. Directly in front of the house was a magnificent red pine tree that stood more than fifty feet tall. Long and twisted but sturdy branches spread through the wooden bed leading to the house. Lying back on this wooden bed provided me with a sense of both spiritual and physical freedom. I could smell the living earth beneath me and almost feel the pulses of sap within the wood itself. The hard but giving support of the wood was reassuring and grounding while the expanse of sky and branches above me made me feel connected to the greater world. While I lay there, I enjoyed listening to the ritualistic recitals of many creatures; the droning of cicadas, mooing of cows, and the long howling winds offered me a retreat from my busy city life. Near the lookout shed, which was located in a large field in front of the house, was our family garden. Years ago, my grandmother had planted various vegetables such as sesame leaf, lettuce, pumpkins, cucumbers and radish in this garden. Her old hands and tired back had worked her entire life to support her children and was no longer up to the challenge of clearing the land for this purpose. Although it was a field, the ground was filled with countless pebbles, rocks and thick with rampant weeds. We didn’t like it much, but preparing the ground for my grandmother’s dream became the duty of those of us in the younger generation. Day after day, one of the parents would drive me and my cousins out to the house to work on grandma’s garden. There wasn’t one of us who wouldn’t rather have been at home playing video games or watching TV. We bitterly complained to each other about how far ahead of us our friends were getting on the latest game and how we had missed some favorite show or another. The hot sun would shine down on us as we worked and our hands became cut and scratched with the rocks and thorns we were dealing with in spite of the heavy garden gloves we wore. One of my cousins even went so far as to remove her gloves – she said it was too hot to wear them – to try to get her parents’ sympathy and allow her to stay home. She insisted this wasn’t her reason, but she spent that whole day working with a patch of thick thorny weeds, so we all knew better. Perhaps as a warning to the rest of us, her parents sent her back to work again the next day with bandages, plenty of salve and an admonition to keep her gloves on this time. In spite of all the hard work, though, I found I was really enjoying it half of the time. There was something pure about what we were doing, preparing the land for my grandmother’s garden and then helping her to plant it, keep it weeded and help the plants grow. It was amazing to me to watch this miracle of life springing up from the ground. I loved bringing water to the plants – the slight gurgle of the water as it fell from the bucket, the moist smell of the earth as it accepted the liquid and the pleasant glint of the sun as it fell through the droplets seemed to transport me to another world where the minor complaints of my cousins drifted away on the soft breezes of the wood and were replaced by the numerous songs of the surrounding birds and wildlife. Finally, though, we were called to return to school and were no longer required to help in the garden. Our days became filled again with the business of school, homework and various after-school activities. Before long, even I began to forget about the garden and the growing things we had helped tend. Life began to shrink back into the digital world of the computer and my one desire was always to just relax in my room away from sun and wind and weather. But then the call came that the garden had produced. We were all invited to share in the fruits of our labor and gathered together as a family at the old house once more. Grandma cooked while she set the rest of us to arranging the various raw vegetables and fruits in a great feast upon the wooden bed. By the time the Japanese yam was cooked and spotted yellow, the rest of us were starving with preparing all the savory food on the wooden bed. Then my grandmother would tell us to come and eat. As the day turned into evening, the coolly refreshing fall winds which swirled through the fields and the front yard passed under the protection of our tall tree and helped dispel our languor. We feasted together until we couldn’t find any room for another bite. As darkness fell, some cousins were eating the savory yams, some were sprawling on the wooden bed to observe the stars which were becoming clear enough to identify without difficulty, and some were already sleeping on grandmother’s lap failing to tolerate the rushing fatigue. It was the first of many such evenings we spent enjoying grandmother’s garden after a hard summer of working in it. But then grandmother died and no one went out to the old house anymore, not until this summer when I took up the challenge of restoring it. One of my cousins told me a year ago, “These days a lot of people don’t communicate with each other even though they are blood relatives. Even worse, sometimes it seems they don’t know how to collaborate. As a young person, spending time in the country with my family and being restrained from computer games was somewhat disturbing; however, now I know what the country house gave me. Reminiscing of our summers in the country house with my cousins is a blessing. It’s even a retreat from my inflexible daily life.” Thinking about it, I realized what tremendous gifts I had been given as a result of working at the country house that could not be attained by sitting in front of a computer screen – something I’d like to give my own family someday. Read More