Twist to today’s writing: Pay attention to sentence lengths and use short, medium, and long sentences.
When I was twelve I lived in a small brick house in Norco, Louisiana. It was a two bedroom, one bath house. When I think back on that time I realize that even though my mother, grandmother, grandfather, brother, and I all lived there, somewhow it did not feel crowded.
Both the back and front yards were well kept and interesting. My grandmother loved flowers so our yard was chock full of an array of flowers, plants, and shrubs. My grandfather planted a bay leaf tree and a mirliton vine in the backyard. The vine snaked across the patio overhang and across to the trees. We had many meals of stuffed mirlitons, thanks to that vine.
My mother, who was not interested in planting things in the ground, was nevertheless a sower of seeds. Her crop was good memories and many fun times.
Our pantry shelves always had a can of Steens Cane Syrup, Luzianne Coffee and Chickory, Hubig fried pies, Eagle Brand condensed milk, and jars of my grandfather’s homemade fig preserves.
We had no air conditioner because in 1954 most homes had either an attic fan, a window fan, or no fan. On hot summer nights we’d open all the windows, turn on the attic fan, and spend most of the night tossing and turning trying to find a cool, dry spot on the pillow. I soon learned there was none to be found, but I tossed nonetheless.
Our windows were strange. They did not go up and down. Instead, they went in and out. We turned a lever one way and the windows opened and another way and they closed.
I loved that little house. My mother still lives there and though I live in North Carolina, when I go to Louisiana to visit family, I stay in that red brick house and it is still home.