The house on the hill with a porch is always not far from my heart.It sat like a beacon of light in mom mind as a kid.I could see it’s lights from miles away down the four miles of hills as we drove into the Mines road on our way home from town.
The house built by Uncle Joe back in the turn of the 19th century was very adquate as a small dwelling or a cottage if we were in England.It had roses,apple trees in the orchard,a back wood porch,and a pump in the yard.The yard had a barn.It looked very much like a little Cape Cod style home.
The roof was black and the trim was black but the house was always white.Long white steps draped the fron doorway up into a porch that ran all the way from one side to the other.The walls were windows,large and wonderful toma child for,through these very windows was a world of sunlight laughter with friends and hours of play, from school, to angry ministers,actors in a play with my sister,or being a mommy with a doll carriage on the old style furniture.I spent hours here in communion with homeless,safeness,imagination,and tranquility’s delights.There was a habit of removing the windows in the summer time and putting in screens . it was so very hot in summer here, I loved to come from my bed and rest there some nights as the upstairs was even hotter in August.
I would sit here and wait for my dad to drive in the driveway from work sometimes I’d get on his knee and steer the car up the long circular driveway to the back door.I liked to,carry his lunch bucket.I knew someday I would carry a lunch bucket to the house.
The house with the porch knew us many abundant times and some not so abundant as we loved our way through the many ups and downs of life’s journey,walking people in and out of the,house.
Today the house on the hill with the sun pore h is still there,it’s style is unchanged, it’s lands are pretty bald of beauty no roses no apple trees, but one thing is for sure it’s will stay on my,memory and my should as a temple of grace,land of innocence blessed by youth in the house on the hill with a porch.
The house built by Uncle Joe back in the turn of the 19th century was very adquate as a small dwelling or a cottage if we were in England.It had roses,apple trees in the orchard,a back wood porch,and a pump in the yard.The yard had a barn.It looked very much like a little Cape Cod style home.
The roof was black and the trim was black but the house was always white.Long white steps draped the fron doorway up into a porch that ran all the way from one side to the other.The walls were windows,large and wonderful toma child for,through these very windows was a world of sunlight laughter with friends and hours of play, from school, to angry ministers,actors in a play with my sister,or being a mommy with a doll carriage on the old style furniture.I spent hours here in communion with homeless,safeness,imagination,and tranquility’s delights.There was a habit of removing the windows in the summer time and putting in screens . it was so very hot in summer here, I loved to come from my bed and rest there some nights as the upstairs was even hotter in August.
I would sit here and wait for my dad to drive in the driveway from work sometimes I’d get on his knee and steer the car up the long circular driveway to the back door.I liked to,carry his lunch bucket.I knew someday I would carry a lunch bucket to the house.
The house with the porch knew us many abundant times and some not so abundant as we loved our way through the many ups and downs of life’s journey,walking people in and out of the,house.
Today the house on the hill with the sun pore h is still there,it’s style is unchanged, it’s lands are pretty bald of beauty no roses no apple trees, but one thing is for sure it’s will stay on my,memory and my should as a temple of grace,land of innocence blessed by youth in the house on the hill with a porch.
