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 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 toward the lake. Already, I can feel the silkiness of the water as it rushes around me and slips between my toes. I can smell the damp, earthy scent of rain still lingering in the air.
As I make my way back to the house, I try not to make any noise. It is getting dark, and the Oregon sun is just a sliver on the horizon, 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 lie 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, there is a clear sky, a bright moon, and dazzling stars. It reassures me and makes me feel safe knowing that...
My house has stars.
Editor’s Note: This was written by my daughter, Amanda, at the age of 12. She is now 15 and has guest posted for this blog a couple of times. You can read her other posts here:
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