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It is in the countryside, which gives me a chance to escape the city's bustle and gives me a calming feeling that lowers or relieves my tension. I made the decision to return this summer.
And from a great distance, you can see it rising from the cornfield like a silhouette. My mind is full of happy memories of the many happy moments I spent at my grandfather's house as I approach the farm gate.
It's a brick-red storied building with fading greyish tiled-roof. My grandfather held and recounted a proud memory of how together with my grandmother saved enough money from selling corn, and built the house in the 1960s. According to him, the house was a paradise; to me, it is still a paradise as it is always filled with warmth, love and laughter, which I believe makes a paradise.
Finally, I arrive. The main house is fronted by four small, single-roomed houses; one barn and three three servants' quarters which were now partially empty. I head straight to the main house, knocked and waited.
The TV is by far my grandfather's favorite possession, and the one of the few things that we were never allowed playing with when we were young. I take one last breath of fresh air and open the front dark metallic door and then the mahogany wooden door. I walk in and the blend of aroma of rotten food and stuffy air suffocates me. I walk in and startle two or three birds feeding on dry bread crumbs that seem to have been spilled sometimes during the previous week.
The TV is on but my grandpa is not on his favorite seat- the red leather sofa by the window on the right. The TV-remote is on the mahogany table, a sign that my grandpa cannot be far. The newspaper rack, which is set on the right side of the huge wooden TV-stand, is still full with a stack of newspapers. There is wood on the fireplace but there is no sign that fire has ever been lit since the last time I visited. I walk past the kitchen and couldn't help but notice the soaked but unwashed dishes in the kitchen as the door was widely open. This could probably be the source of the rotten food aroma that fills the room.
I walk past other rooms and on to the backyard through the back door.
That have since died either from old-age or disease but are yet to fall to the grass covered ground. Back then, when they were still arrive, the maple trees provided a good hiding place during the hide-and-seek games, and later a nice place to relax after the day's work. It is a pity that all what remain of them is their thin moss-ridden and leafless branches. At the eastern side of the red maple trees are four rose bushes that desperately need water and trimming. They were the love of my grandmother, but have since stooped getting any love and care after as she is too old to tender to them. The pansies and daises are trimmed but not as when my grandmother was around. However, they are still attractive and provide the fresh therapeutic smell that has the magic of clearing all my stress.
Clearly, it badly needs grease. However, my grandfather still claims that he is too old to climb a six-foot windmill that is already working, for greasing. Left to him, I bet he would grease the windmill when it stops turning with the wind. Then there is the garage which houses a '67 dodge coronet. The dodge coronet has not been driven for years, but it is still very well kept. I am dead sure that it cannot ignite but my grandmother claims that the good old boy still runs like a champ. I fondly remember grandmother's story of how he was rolling with the dodge coronet back in the days, and how its speed was enough to smitten my grandmother. I guess grandpa keeps and cares for it as it reminds him of his lovely wife, my grandfather. Next to the dodge coronet is an old John Deere tractor. There are some tools by its side, and the ground below the tractor is greased, evidence that my grandpa was working on it. Before I can walk any further I hear a deep voice behind me, "who is this admiring my John Deere?" Even without turning, I can tell it is my grandfather.
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