By Amanda Schultz
Written at Age 12
My house is my sanctuary. Safe. Quiet. Home. A place where
nature is overwhelming. Where every screech, scream, buzz, peep, squawk, whine
and whistle means something different to everyone.
My house is a log cabin, built by hand-and love-in the heat
of summer. You can tell that it has been there for a long time, and will still
be there for even after I grow old. The wood is scarred and worn, but it is strong.
As the sun rises, so do I, the pitter-patter of my feet
echoing through the house as I rush outside to greet the sunshine. So bright I
have to look away, it warms my cold fingers and fills me with happiness.
A gentle breeze rustles my hair and tickles my face,
waiting for me to chase after it. I almost do, but the savory scent of crispy
bacon forces me back inside. Breakfast is heavenly. Fluffy pancakes and fried
fish caught fresh yesterday.
Dad takes me fishing. We go out in the rusty, old rowboat
and just float. My dad handles the oars, the splintered wood slicing through
the water. Our little boat sends out miniature wakes behind us. Ripples are
everywhere. We don't catch anything today, but tomorrow we will.
My day is filled with the quiet whisper of the Pine Trees
as they sway in the wind Tall and imposing they tower over me, casting shadows
across my face, making me shiver.
I head towards the
lake. Already, I can feel the silkiness of the water as it rushes around me and
slips in between my toes. I can smell the damp, earthy smell of rain still
lingering in the air.
As I make my way
back to the house, I am trying not to make any noise. It is getting dark, and
the Oregon sun is just a sliver on the horizon. It's almost ready to duck
behind the mountains. The sky is a rosy red, the colors of the sunset swirling
together. The air is quiet, which means the animals will be silently nestled in
their homes.
That night we light a campfire. We roast hotdogs and sticky
sweet marshmallows until our stomachs are aching, bulging and ready to burst.
The light from the fire makes shadows dance around in the clearing.
Later, as I am in bed, there is a flash outside my window,
then a boom, then a roar. I am tempted to hide under my covers until it is
over, but instead, I rush over and look out. The clouds are a dark splotch on
the horizon. The rain sounds like the pitter-patter of my feet. I savor the
sound of the raindrops as the storm rages on. And then I wonder, will it ever
stop? Yes. Somewhere, up above the lumpy clouds is a clear sky, a bright moon,
and dazzling stars. It reassures me and makes me feel safe knowing that...
My house has stars.
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