The cultural norm for domestic relationships in our society is that women tend to be the caregivers and stay home, while the husbands provide financial support for the family. Cultural norms are ideas or rules about how people should behave in particular situations or toward other people. According to Beckham, "While virtually all-American porches owe their architectural being to forms developed in other cultures, the American front porch is a peculiarly American institution. […] The widespread use of the domestic front porch in the United States came at a time when the functions of the male heads of household and of their female counterparts were being redefined." (TAFP p. 68-69) This was the norm in that era. It was not uncommon for women
Today, as the rain was tapping on my window, I stared out at the storm clouds casting shadows onto the long green fields of spring. As I was watching as the grass and the leaves in the trees on the horizon sway with the wind, my mind was recalled to a time that I’ve been trying to hide away for a long while now.
The notion that time will always continue to march forth can be likened to a small and bitter pill:; seemingly plain and amusingly easy to conquer when laid out, yet in actuality shockingly difficult to swallow. Every minute, every hour, every day is insignificant when contrasted against the length of our lives yet we are so wrapped up in our egos that we are too stubborn to accept that, preferring to immerse ourselves in fanciful fantasies of “what if?” in an effort to relive the past rather than look towards the future. Flashes of nostalgia strike us when we come across an old flame or the setting of a fond memory, and we often try to recreate those memories and joy once felt without any consideration for the person we have matured into.
Arriving in the overgrown drive way trees start to crowd your vision, in the middle of all the trees I see an old beach house; that has stayed the same over the 18 years I have been going up there. Grandma is waiting outside on the front porch we all run up to give her a hug, then we go and start unpacking for a week’s worth of relaxing. First thing we do when were done unpacking is go to the old but new play structure. We sit on the swings and look out towards the big blue Michigan Lake. White caps cover most of the water along with passing boats, and some kayakers. Right over the horizon I can see the lights from the town, reaching into the sky. The sun is starting to set; the sky is painted with pink, orange, and yellow.
Being in the home was like a separate world, one between life and death. When I reached the outside world again everything seemed so fresh. There were bright yellow-green leaves that hung with an arrogant vivacity, cars that sped by with such fervor, wind blowing with verve and energy, lively children playing with a vivacious lust for life, and the vitality that exudes from the air into your lungs. I wanted to bring this energy into
The clearing was quiet, it seemed lifeless. The Salinas River still flowed merrily near the hillside. The water was still warm from the afternoon sun, and still reflected a green hue. On one side of the river, the smooth foothill slopes still curved up to the strong and rocky Gabilan Mountains, and the other side was still lined with trees. The willows and sycamore branches still swung gently in the wind, and the leaves still created a green light within the space. It was totally calm and peaceful… but something was wrong. The air seemed heavier, and the sun seemed dimmer. No animals stirred, and everything seemed to be aware of a deep sadness. Nothing moved save for a small group of men standing around an unmoving figure.
The sun is out shining down on the bright sparkling marigolds, it’s quiet, nothing's open and nothing to do, but lay around and think about the stage of the world right now. I walk outside and see nothing but dullness, the dust against my feet, and the small town around me, there may have been green grass, and roads at one point a while ago “but memory is an abstract painting” . Behind me is a small shack “leaning together like a house that a child might have constructed from cards”, with no porch, on a small lot with no grass around. I have one thing that is held close to me that makes me happy, they are bright against the dust, they are my marigolds. I notice Lizabeth has her eye on the marigolds, LIzabeth doesn’t want someone to have something
One sparkling sunny mid-summer afternoon I was sitting on the back porch with my loving family. The back porch was so beautiful it sparkled like sunrays dancing on top of the warm clear water in the sunset. My mom, aunt, my grandfather, and I were enjoying the horses prancing around in the field passing by the porch. Full of excitement, the dogs sitting on the porch bolted like thunder in a tornado when they saw a golf cart drive by. My mom whistled at the dogs and they stopped in their tracks! Startled, they scampered around and ran full speed back. Suddenly my heart filled with excitement because I realized I must learn to whistle! I begged my mom to teach me how to whistle and she finally said yes! So the first thing she taught me is how
I couldn’t breath. Dust was everywhere. Our little town of Lakewood in Oklahoma, has vanished. Cars were now piles of dust on the road. Crops were now dry and nowhere to be seen. My eyes burned and itched. Our house was once a home, but now it looked dark. Dark and scary. It was not as white as it used to be. It always looked happy and felt like a home. But now our house, didn’t feel or look like a home. The walls were cracked and the windows were full of dust. The floors were scratched and clawed. Our beds and blankets are not safe places anymore. The food that we consume, tastes raw, bitter, and has no flavor. We’re eating and swallowing dust everyday. Pa has tired marks on his face. Ma doesn’t cook us our favorite meals anymore. Rose and
Tranquil gusts kissed my skin; the sweet sensation of a breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves sung me a lullaby. As I lie, back to my trampoline and limbs sprawled, my mind would undergo a sort of cleansing, ridding me of my troubles. My home held my childhood; it possessed memories that had accumulated from day one, intertwining and condensing them to forge a place that would bear peace and serenity. I never contemplated departure, even when it was apparent my parents sought for a better place to reside, for no place could replace my home. Alas, my assumptions were proven to be erroneous.
I brought my plate outside, the patterned china seemingly wet in the sun. I took a bite of my sandwich. The cool veggies managed to dull the heat. The cucumbers crunched in the bread as i took another bite, my mind wondering as I set. I could recall all of the gathering held in this yard, both joyful and somber. Gatherings of celebration and mourning. Each year we would sit In the yard, mixed chatter filling the small clearing. Everyone flocked to the small, one story home. Grandmothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, all alike. Each gathering, the numbers seemed to grow. We would all sit, listening, gathering, and sharing stories of one another. Though it is always nice be reunited family and friends, the empty yard is an entirely separate place. As I finished my sandwich, I looked around, almost an hour had passed. I begun to clean up the spot I was occupying, stacking my dishes and
The birds flutter their wings and soar from tree to tree. A shallow pond gives life to the fish, turtles, and frogs within it. The woods beyond my house are my refuge. Everything is still and calm, bringing me a sense of peace and tranquility. In the summer, the woods are lush and plentiful. Vibrant colors catch my eyes in every direction. The scene is so glorious and soothing, that it overwhelms me. To me, even though the sunset is splendorous, watching the sunset makes me depressed because it means that the day is ending. Lily says in the book The Secret Life of Bees, “Sunset is the saddest light there is.” The smell of flowers and grass brings a fresh scent to my nose. Nothing in the world can compare to the aroma released by the delicate daffodils among the green floor.
A ways away from a town that I call home, I found a happy place. I often find myself walking through the park by myself. The beautiful trees, the way the yellow and red leaves crumple under my feet every step I take. When the flowers bloom and how it's the most spectacular sight you could ever imagine seeing, all the different colors that appear. When you breathe in and you get this smell of purity, you feel free and alive. Sometimes I like to sit on the old wooden bench where the bench frame is a little rusted, and I get rid of my thoughts and my eyes search the sky. In the winter the icy breeze makes me shiver, and the cold air I take in, is like sitting in front of an air conditioner and breathing in. Some mornings the sun beams across the sky, which is not quite blue yet, but the sun has almost fully risen. When the wind blows, it grazes over the blades of grass. Some days I just stand and take a deep breath in and I can taste the spring. When summer comes around, and the bees are buzzing, and the hot sun beats on the back of my neck, I lay on the soft grass and listen, to the birds chirping a beautiful song, and the kids playing in the park. The sky is the bluest view in sight.
A call came that I needed to come home, if I did not come now I would regret it. Ohio bound, the next flight out, luggage packed, and tears streaming down my face. I prayed that time would be on myside. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Why is time so stagnant? Years have passed since I have been to visit. Walking along that old beat up fence on a brisk autumn day a tear rolls down my cheek. The beautiful old oak tree seems frail and withered. More leaves have fallen since last I have been here. The branches have been stripped bare exposing more of the bark that has faded to ghostly shades of white and grey. A light breeze stirs the leaves causing the rope swing to sway back and forth. The last few leaves are barely holding on. Sitting beneath the tree my tears create a small puddle upon a leaf. Rippling across the top a reflection appears, but not myself as an adult. A small child with flour upon her cheek, her tiny hands
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.