Grandmama's Mansion

Grandmama's Diary: First Entry

Dear Journal,

Today I turned seventeen. I feel as such though I am the same of yesterday, however, and in that I am disappointed. I woke up to my father's chickens singing. Most people found them annoying, but I found the beauty within it. They truly are singing as best as they can, so how can it not be beautiful?

I rose from my bed, pushing the blue quilt Granny made me off of my torso. It was cold and, after a brief observation of my room, I saw my window's wooden doors were swinging in the wind, its old rusting hinged wining. I slowly and lethargically stood up, my night gown blown by the wind that snuck into my room from the window. I walked up rather sluggishly, still trying to wake up, and closed my windows. I locked its rusted lock, but it never seems to hold.

I got down on my knees and fetched my blue slippers from underneath my bed, the abyss that many objects get lost in. Although my mother complained about it, she ignored it on the premise that the rest of the room sparkled, and it truly did. The white plaster walls were without a scratch, the tan carpet was soft and completely visible, hidden behind nothing, and the wooden furniture glistened from the waxing it received weekly.

I loved my room. Ever since it was a shed, I loved the space. When my dad built it into a room for my thirteenth birthday, I actually cried of joy. Before I had this room, I slept in the now laundry room, not even half the size of my room.

Wearing my slippers, I opened my wooden door and walked down the carpet floored hall to the linoleum floored kitchen. My mother was standing in front of the stove, surrounded in the "POPS!" of the oil as she places bacon in the pan. The kitchen smelled of delicious eggs and mouth-watering bacon: my favorite breakfast. My mother looked at me as I was blissfully inhaling the aroma and said, "Happy Birthday, my sweet girl. I am making eggs and bacon for you, but I can tell you already know so."

We both laughed as I approached her, realizing it was my birthday. "Oh, thank you, mother!" I cheered as she hugged me. She was wearing her purple morning robe Granny made for her. It was so soft; I always wished Granny made me one. I loved hugging my mother.

Her long arms wrapped around my body, providing warmth and a sense of love. Her long black hair fell behind her shoulders, down to her mid-stomach. It waved in light curves that shined, showing how wonderfully kept it was. Her cheek rested atop my head, just showing how tall she was. She normally kept it in a bun but she didn't bother preparing herself until after breakfast.

"You are most welcome, my sweet girl. There is coffee on the counter for you if it interests you," she replied, tending to the bacon once again. When my mother makes coffee for you, you know it is a special day. She knew I loved a cup of coffee, but coffee was one thing we couldn't grow so we didn't have it often.

We lived on a huge farm, but, unlike most farmers, we only made what we needed for ourselves and we only got money from a select few customers, Klaudia Puccini, John Fernando, and Roger Walters, all of which just insist on buying from us. Klaudia immigrated from Italy several years ago and always insisted on having fresh foods, something stores didn't provide her with. She said she wanted to watch it grown herself and so she came to our farm every Saturday. My mother has grown fond of her and now she stays all day. John is a friend of my fathers and insists that our produce beat anything everything else in the state of North Carolina.