I dreamt of my grandparents house in Reservoir Hills.
Everything was so vivid - I could smell the delicious aroma's wafting in from the kitchen (my grandmothers eternal happy place). I could hear the radio on in their bedroom, even though there was nobody there, and the T.V on in the lounge, where my grandfather was firmly planted in his musty green recliner, watching cricket highlights. There was the passage between the bedrooms and the rest of the house, the burgundy tiles shined, polished and smooth - always - just right for sock-skating. I could even hear the tinkle of the long strands of beads framing the walkway as the wind blew in from the perpetually open front door. I remember the dining room table, large enough to fit our entire family - and then some, at a comfortable squeeze. I remember how I used to go and sit underneath it when I didn't want to be found. I remember the blue tiles of the entrance hall; the wooden lattice-work door; the dark wood cabinet that always smelt of incense sticks, and was always so polished that you could use it as a mirror when all else failed. I remember the black tiled balcony: my playroom, the sowing room, the storage, 'exercise' and prayer area. I remember all the bedrooms - having usually used one - or sometimes all of them - in a single night: waking up at the oddest of hours and absconding on my sitters in favour of some other...but nobody ever got mad at me, and each would usually welcome me into their beds and under their covers in their groggy half asleep states, accommodating my child-like need to conform to the shape of their bodies without complaint. I remember the rocking chair that used to put me to sleep on so many occasions. I remember the garage, filled with everything you could possibly ever need, stacked to the rafters and above, my magic room of requirement. I remember the back yard, and the dog's house. I remember the mango and litchi orchard at the back - and all the games of make-believe that were born there, that occupied me for hours on end. I remember the paw paw trees and the way the monkeys would chuck their half eaten chunks down at our dog, who would, in his aggravation, lie in wait till some unsuspecting monkey under estimated him and either came down, or fell of his perch - woe to that little critter. I remember the front garden: and all the colours that seemed to explode out at you when you entered it, juxtaposed against the blue barley face-brick of the house: Roses in different stages of bloom lining one wall; foliage, lush and green creeping out at you from another; ferns, the beautiful, massive, ferns demanding your attention no matter where you stood. I remember the veranda and the hot days when the kiddies pool would be dragged out from the room of requirement, and filled to the brim with divinely cold water, and my grandmother would strip me down and leave me in there to create a jolly old mess and stay out of her way. I remember Eid days and family braais; I remember birthdays and weddings; I remember so many people, that the house seemed fit to burst - except that it never did, and there was always room for one more - and then some. I remember the shrieks of laughter and late night thanee games among the adults - where, back then, I never understood what was going on, but enjoyed it immensly nonetheless. I remember losing my first tooth there; I remember riding my bicycle up and down that driveway; I remember all the scrapes and bruises and knocks about that taught me how to stiffen up my upper lip and just get on with it; I remember the wooden-spoon hidings when I was particularly mischievous and the make-up chocolate cake my grandmother would bake me afterwards; I remember baking my first cake there, which was so rock solid that nobody could eat it - yet my one cousin valiantly pretended to enjoy it for the sake of my pride; I remember games of hide and seek and blind man's bluff and tag; I remember sick days and days where everything just seemed so right with the world...I remember growing up there, in my fairytale kingdom where I reigned supreme...
That's what I want for my kids (when I do eventually have them)- somewhere where memories are made; where experiences are remembered; where Life comes to life. I don't want a big house, I just want a big home...I want them to have a Favourite Place in The World too, one they'll never forget and carry with them in their hearts wherever they may go...just like the way I carry 253 Mountbatten Drive, Reservoir Hills in mine.
Everything was so vivid - I could smell the delicious aroma's wafting in from the kitchen (my grandmothers eternal happy place). I could hear the radio on in their bedroom, even though there was nobody there, and the T.V on in the lounge, where my grandfather was firmly planted in his musty green recliner, watching cricket highlights. There was the passage between the bedrooms and the rest of the house, the burgundy tiles shined, polished and smooth - always - just right for sock-skating. I could even hear the tinkle of the long strands of beads framing the walkway as the wind blew in from the perpetually open front door. I remember the dining room table, large enough to fit our entire family - and then some, at a comfortable squeeze. I remember how I used to go and sit underneath it when I didn't want to be found. I remember the blue tiles of the entrance hall; the wooden lattice-work door; the dark wood cabinet that always smelt of incense sticks, and was always so polished that you could use it as a mirror when all else failed. I remember the black tiled balcony: my playroom, the sowing room, the storage, 'exercise' and prayer area. I remember all the bedrooms - having usually used one - or sometimes all of them - in a single night: waking up at the oddest of hours and absconding on my sitters in favour of some other...but nobody ever got mad at me, and each would usually welcome me into their beds and under their covers in their groggy half asleep states, accommodating my child-like need to conform to the shape of their bodies without complaint. I remember the rocking chair that used to put me to sleep on so many occasions. I remember the garage, filled with everything you could possibly ever need, stacked to the rafters and above, my magic room of requirement. I remember the back yard, and the dog's house. I remember the mango and litchi orchard at the back - and all the games of make-believe that were born there, that occupied me for hours on end. I remember the paw paw trees and the way the monkeys would chuck their half eaten chunks down at our dog, who would, in his aggravation, lie in wait till some unsuspecting monkey under estimated him and either came down, or fell of his perch - woe to that little critter. I remember the front garden: and all the colours that seemed to explode out at you when you entered it, juxtaposed against the blue barley face-brick of the house: Roses in different stages of bloom lining one wall; foliage, lush and green creeping out at you from another; ferns, the beautiful, massive, ferns demanding your attention no matter where you stood. I remember the veranda and the hot days when the kiddies pool would be dragged out from the room of requirement, and filled to the brim with divinely cold water, and my grandmother would strip me down and leave me in there to create a jolly old mess and stay out of her way. I remember Eid days and family braais; I remember birthdays and weddings; I remember so many people, that the house seemed fit to burst - except that it never did, and there was always room for one more - and then some. I remember the shrieks of laughter and late night thanee games among the adults - where, back then, I never understood what was going on, but enjoyed it immensly nonetheless. I remember losing my first tooth there; I remember riding my bicycle up and down that driveway; I remember all the scrapes and bruises and knocks about that taught me how to stiffen up my upper lip and just get on with it; I remember the wooden-spoon hidings when I was particularly mischievous and the make-up chocolate cake my grandmother would bake me afterwards; I remember baking my first cake there, which was so rock solid that nobody could eat it - yet my one cousin valiantly pretended to enjoy it for the sake of my pride; I remember games of hide and seek and blind man's bluff and tag; I remember sick days and days where everything just seemed so right with the world...I remember growing up there, in my fairytale kingdom where I reigned supreme...
That's what I want for my kids (when I do eventually have them)- somewhere where memories are made; where experiences are remembered; where Life comes to life. I don't want a big house, I just want a big home...I want them to have a Favourite Place in The World too, one they'll never forget and carry with them in their hearts wherever they may go...just like the way I carry 253 Mountbatten Drive, Reservoir Hills in mine.
oh i remember those days! sweet sweet good old days! playing in the kitchen...in the black veranda...watching videos! playing on the front lawn!!! kala ma's house!!!
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