Driving up to the house always amazed me. Sitting in the back of the blue Chevy van, nose pushed against the rear window, the stilts it stood on seemed like a stork’s legs. The house stood way above my head, towering over me, peering down at my little five-year-old body as I stared back. Located on an island off the mainland, my grandparent’s house stood among a sea of cattails and reeds, overlooking the Manahawkin Bay.
Walking through the front door, clutching the back of my mother’s pants, my ears quickly picked up the chittering, chattering, and squawking of the Macaws in the dining room. As soon as I entered the house, my nose was bombarded with the unique combination of smells; a slight musty haze clung to the hospitable polish meals, mixing with the nuts, seeds, and dried fruit for the Macaws to create an aroma that mimicked that of a permanent autumn evening.
I'm glad I didn't have to go there often.
Yea, me too!
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