As far back as I could remember, there had been a house that always remained a consistent place I could call home. The house wasn’t my own home but my grandparents and no matter how far away we lived or financial living situation, the house had always been there to go to as a place of refuge. The house was once a truly magical place that reigned supreme atop a hill. It became a place of dreams where battles were won and horrors have been conquered. It was a place of joy, and laughter, and even tears, but only in my dreams do those feelings remain. No matter how long it has been since I’ve visited the house, it still remains a consistent part of my life. I think it is important for someone to have a place that you can call home, where you interact with a loving family, and where you learn to be yourself.
Driving to my grandparent’s house seemed like an escape from reality on every visit. Nestled in the back hills of Beaverton, OR, their home seemed to remove itself from the hard yet worn city streets; we vanished into a lush heavily populated community of moss-covered cedar and fir trees. The drive to their house flowed more like water cutting across a canyon, banking up to a point and rushing down around a bend, and when every rock in the gravel road shaking the car like rapids against a boat. And just when you think you can’t handle the rapids any longer, you escape the grasp of the outstretched limbs of the overgrowth and are thrust upon the emerald green hill. The smell of the crabapple tree blended with fresh cut grass was the hills friendly greeting as we climbed the drive up towards the house. And there it was sitting at the top like a king upon its throne and even the sunlight reflected jewel for a window resting at its peak.
As an extension of the house itself, the trees became a roof stretching over the south end as if they were the hands of the house sheltering its eyes from the sun. Underneath the branches a shaded section of the deck wrapped around a majority of the house where it had seen numerous events, from family reunions, wedding receptions, and large family barbeques. The summer under the trees was a way of keeping cool in the hot summer months, allowing us to keep cool and protected from the heat of the sun. At least once a day we would gather on the deck to lounge around for any number of activities, from chucking freshly picked corn from the garden to cracking the hard shells of walnuts to even knitting. Always watching over us on the deck was the great protector of a giant Oak tree, littered with holes of woodpeckers who made sure to remind us not to sleep in too early in the morning with there chain gun ratta-tat-tat of a nuisance.
I discovered at an early age my fondness of gardening, or rather, my lack there of but I learned how important it was to develop the skills of a gardener. The garden was across an ocean of field stretching out to the north end where the eyes would focus on the large conifers that stood at the base of the wooden gate like sentry guards protecting the garden surrounded by a living wall. The Jays would fight us over the blueberries, grapes and cherries but we won valiantly with pie covered with a cloud of whipped cream. The harvested corn became a weekly tribute at our BBQ’s and the cucumbers were pickled and savored over the years. The playground that was the garden also protected two large walnut trees at its back end where monkeys use to swing from its limbs. The harvested the nuts from those trees produced some of the most mouth-watering brownies ever known to mankind. There was a magic all on its own when it carried itself throughout the house as if to reawaken the senses from a coma with a sweet buttery aroma of milk chocolate and roasted nuts.
The section of cut grass in front of the house spanned out to the north like a slightly lumpy football field. It was our Olympic stadium of sorts where bikes were learned how to be used and golf clubs were swung. Even when the grass was uncut and up to the elbows, the yard became a battlefield to hide in, playing Cowboys and Indians, or various types of war games. On some summer nights the field became our campground where tents were nothing just a mere reflection of society. On the field in our tent the house no longer existed, it was just us and the stars, and the occasional silent whoosh of a dark object with a large wingspan that was undoubtedly an owl out on the hunt. It was the star-speckled sky that sheltered us from the elements of the world and we were safe. It was only the damp morning dew covering the grass, covering us, that made the experience of camping under the stars regrettable.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been up to the castle on the hill. It became too much for a couple of still young grandparents to handle anymore. Their children had all grown up and have moved off to new places of their own. I have however visited the development that seemed to have chewed up all the woods, the fields and even the guardian oak tree and spewed out houses in their place. Where trees once shaded the house, cars now rush past with no acknowledgment of the historical landmark the house is to the hill. To any other person the house may be nothing more than an old gray house with odd triangular shapes for windows and outer walls in weird places. But for me the castle on the hill still lives on, where monkeys swing from the giant walnut trees, epic battles are won, and the nightmares are conquered, its my late night protector, it will always be my home.
