Daily Writing: Grampa's House
August 27, 2010
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I’ve always wanted to write a novel. As a young child, I’d fill notebooks full of stories and journal entries. I have a whole box full of notebooks and journals. Unfortunately, due to moving around a lot, I’ve lost everything earlier than sixth grade. It would be so interesting to go back and read that stuff.
But, in an attempt to get back in the groove of creative writing, I’ve made a goal to write 1 page/10 minutes every day in a notebook. I figure, once I establish the habit of daily writing and generate some material to later mine and edit, the novel won’t be too far away.
A lot of what I’ve been writing has been based in memory and I’m realizing a lot of the details are lost. I hope that they resurface through daily exercise and perhaps by family and friends filling in what they remember in the comments to the individual posts. To that end, I’m going to post my daily writings, unedited.
Daily Writing for August 27, 2010:
Grampa’s house was a melding of pre-fab and home construction. According to my father, it began as a two bedroom trailer that Grampa eventually completely replaced with wooden beams and dry wall. By the time I had memory of the place, it had a large open space downstairs with only two rooms set apart by walls: the living room with the built-in tomato planter and wood storage and the bathroom. Everything else flowed through the same uninterrupted space. There were two twin beds at the opposite end of the kitchen in this space where grandkids and guests slept. The windows overlooked the cemetery that abutted the house. This space was demarcated by a table that held a single crystal two-level candy dish. Sometimes it held nuts or M&Ms, but mostly it was empty. Not even junk collected in that dish, for everything had a home, according to Grampa. Beyond this table was the kitchen. My fondest and most frightening memories at this house were in the kitchen. From where I slept on the first floor, I could smell the bacon cooking before I woke to the sounds of the sizzling and popping. On the table would be three to five boxes of cereal. Places always set for six. Grampa would be at the stove turning and pressing the bacon with a fork. As soon as the bacon was done, he’d start on the buckwheat flapjacks in the same pan. This was every morning. No wonder I have such a love of breakfast foods. Grampa began making breakfast as soon as he was back from delivering newspapers. He’d leave at three or four in the morning and return around six or seven. Then breakfast would roust everyone in the house. It wasn’t until I was in upper grade school before I realized that the golden liquid in the juice glass he always had with him wasn’t apple juice.