The Poem The Big Forest By Lena Garcia
The Big Forest
By lena (marina) garcia
Sometimes, hot and breezy summer days and sapphire blue skies as wide an ocean, can bring on childhood memories of long ago.
For me, it’s memories of when I was a cub scout and proudly wore my dark blue uniform with the yellow bandana for a tie. I remember eating slices of bright red watermelon sprinkled with shiny black seeds; and mother and I lazily swinging in the cool of a front porch swing, sipping a glass of iced lemonade with lemon wedges that looked like floating yellow sail boats on top; and those adventurous and fun summer days spent playing in the big forest I thought would never come to an end, when I was a blond and freckled, blue eyed boy going on ten. Back in those summer days …show more content…
my two best friends Jimmy Bells and Trey and I, wore what was left of our school day clothes; Faded Jeans torn at the knees were cut into shorts. Striped polo T-shirts by then had holes here and there and easily ripped. By the time school was about to start again our black and white high top tennis shoes with the stringy shoe laces were more than well worn out. Oh, and before I forget, band-aids over red Iodined elbows and knees. In those days, times were really tough. We were always having to move to some other part of the city. Somehow, we found ourselves living in the bustling clapboard house neighborhood. That’s the place we stayed the longest and the one that brings back some of the happiest and most unforgettable moments of my childhood days, that brightly still live in my memory. Like cuddling with a warm kitten, or falling in love for the first time, and my moms warm hugs and kisses.
Our neighborhood was called the clapboard house neighborhood because of the old and gray and oddly repainted clapboard houses that lined both sides of the street. Only after much complaining did the miser landlords fix and paint the houses with whatever colors were cheaply available and most of the time were not anywhere near an exact match. Our house had suffered the same fate as the other clapboard houses in the neighborhood where one side of the house was painted a shade lighter or darker of the same color. Our small house had been painted a shade lighter of forest green, but one wall and the porch columns were painted a light leafy green. The day the house was painted my mother stood back and said, “The house looks like a giant avocado.” Eventually, we got used to the disrepair in the old house. The glass on the windows frames were loose. The water faucets and roof leaked. When they were eventually fixed, it was hard to sleep at night without the sound of the dripping water faucets. Inside the clapboard houses, no burglar was safe, because the wooden floors creaked with each foot step. Our screen door had a tight spring that slammed shut with a loud bang and served as an alarm to let my mom know I had run out of the house without having made up my bed. My dad could oil the squeaks out of the door spring but as usual he tried to get out of his household duties and would say “Just wait till it completely breaks... why fix it twice.” Each old house had a crooked picket fence to keep kids and barking dogs from other kids and barking dogs. Dogs and cats trotted along side kids on bicycles, tricycles, silver roller skates and red rider wagons that went rumbling up and down over shady and cracked sidewalks and bumpy streets, carrying a passenger or two that held on tight with both hands.
Directly across from our house lived a retired Army veteran. Early in the morning he could be seen sitting on his front porch, in his white undershirt and worn khaki pants; enjoying his morning coffee and watching birds flying overhead, perched on bird feeders, and splashing in the bird bath surrounded by a small flowery garden. The retired veteran owned one of the first houses built in the clapboard house neighborhood. Through the years he had kept his home in it’s original condition. The house was painted slate blue. The door, trim, porch columns and picket fence were painted an off white. His lawn stayed green and neatly trimmed year around. His flowery garden abounded with an assortment of colorful and scented flowers. Tall and white Shasta daisies, scented English Lavender, giant yellow marigolds, orange, red and yellow mums and roses of every shade and color, snuggled tightly against the off white picket fence.
Right after coffee, the retired vet brought out the American flag and proudly displayed it on the porch column nearest the door. With military precision he stood at attention and saluted the flag, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. He did this every morning except when it rained. Over the years several American flags had been stolen off the flag pole in the center of his yard. He suspected it to be the work of anti-patriots, and would say, “Who else!” Long after the war had been over some people were still angry and hurting over their financial situation. Others, over the loss of loved ones; in what some considered to have been an uncompromising and senseless war. The retired vet told my dad. “As an American patriot, one must be ready to answer the call to wholeheartedly serve his country”.
Like all the residents in the neighborhood, we struggled to make ends meet. And as if things weren’t bad enough we lived next to the most awful house in the neighborhood, possibly in the whole world. The house had been abandoned years ago and was in such dilapidated condition it leaned like a hat cocked to one side. An old man who lived a few houses down the street would go to the trouble of getting up from his chair when he would see us playing at the old house. And holding his bent back with his hand, hollered out, “ Hey! You kids! Stay away from that old house! It’s going to collapse at any moment and you don’t want to be caught in it when it does!.. Now get away from there and go and play somewhere else! Or better yet, go home! Go on, go home; or I will tell your dads when I see them!”, In those days parents, especially dads were respected.
“Aw! What does he know?”, said Trey and scanned the ground for the perfect size rock. “He’s got loose and missing boards on his porch. He told my dad the land lord said he was going to send someone to fix his porch weeks ago. And to this day no one has been there to fix it. His house will fall before this one does.” Trey found the rock he was looking for. Drew his arm way back and threw the rock at one of the windows with a hole in the glass, sending pieces of flying glass against the wall.
Jimmy Bells, the youngest of the three spoke up, “My mom said if you break a window you will have seven years bad luck and that is a long, long time.
Think how old you will be in seven years?
I was hitting a tree with a long stick and said to Jimmy Bells,” That’s for mirrors not broken windows.”
“O, it is? Well, what’s the difference anyway? You can still see yourself.” said Jimmy and scratched the back of his leg with his other foot. “The difference is... that one is a window and the other is a mirror. That’s, what’s the difference.” I kept hitting the tree until the stick broke, went flying and landed on the roof of the old house. The yard in the old clapboard house was over gown with weeds and littered with tires and household trash. The front door always rested half open and at an angle. Through a big hole in the kitchen roof rain fell and sun shined over a winding green ivy. Every spring the same ivy crept from under the rotten floorboards, zig zagged across the kitchen floor and out through a broken window. Through another hole in the living room ceiling doves with outstretched wings flew in and out through warm beams of yellow sunshine and stood on the rafters under summer rain showers, rustling their smooth and glossy feathered wings then softly cooed on the shady nooks of the abandoned
house.
By lena (marina) garcia
Sometimes, hot and breezy summer days and sapphire blue skies as wide an ocean, can bring on childhood memories of long ago.
For me, it’s memories of when I was a cub scout and proudly wore my dark blue uniform with the yellow bandana for a tie. I remember eating slices of bright red watermelon sprinkled with shiny black seeds; and mother and I lazily swinging in the cool of a front porch swing, sipping a glass of iced lemonade with lemon wedges that looked like floating yellow sail boats on top; and those adventurous and fun summer days spent playing in the big forest I thought would never come to an end, when I was a blond and freckled, blue eyed boy going on ten. Back in those summer days …show more content…
my two best friends Jimmy Bells and Trey and I, wore what was left of our school day clothes; Faded Jeans torn at the knees were cut into shorts. Striped polo T-shirts by then had holes here and there and easily ripped. By the time school was about to start again our black and white high top tennis shoes with the stringy shoe laces were more than well worn out. Oh, and before I forget, band-aids over red Iodined elbows and knees. In those days, times were really tough. We were always having to move to some other part of the city. Somehow, we found ourselves living in the bustling clapboard house neighborhood. That’s the place we stayed the longest and the one that brings back some of the happiest and most unforgettable moments of my childhood days, that brightly still live in my memory. Like cuddling with a warm kitten, or falling in love for the first time, and my moms warm hugs and kisses.
Our neighborhood was called the clapboard house neighborhood because of the old and gray and oddly repainted clapboard houses that lined both sides of the street. Only after much complaining did the miser landlords fix and paint the houses with whatever colors were cheaply available and most of the time were not anywhere near an exact match. Our house had suffered the same fate as the other clapboard houses in the neighborhood where one side of the house was painted a shade lighter or darker of the same color. Our small house had been painted a shade lighter of forest green, but one wall and the porch columns were painted a light leafy green. The day the house was painted my mother stood back and said, “The house looks like a giant avocado.” Eventually, we got used to the disrepair in the old house. The glass on the windows frames were loose. The water faucets and roof leaked. When they were eventually fixed, it was hard to sleep at night without the sound of the dripping water faucets. Inside the clapboard houses, no burglar was safe, because the wooden floors creaked with each foot step. Our screen door had a tight spring that slammed shut with a loud bang and served as an alarm to let my mom know I had run out of the house without having made up my bed. My dad could oil the squeaks out of the door spring but as usual he tried to get out of his household duties and would say “Just wait till it completely breaks... why fix it twice.” Each old house had a crooked picket fence to keep kids and barking dogs from other kids and barking dogs. Dogs and cats trotted along side kids on bicycles, tricycles, silver roller skates and red rider wagons that went rumbling up and down over shady and cracked sidewalks and bumpy streets, carrying a passenger or two that held on tight with both hands.
Directly across from our house lived a retired Army veteran. Early in the morning he could be seen sitting on his front porch, in his white undershirt and worn khaki pants; enjoying his morning coffee and watching birds flying overhead, perched on bird feeders, and splashing in the bird bath surrounded by a small flowery garden. The retired veteran owned one of the first houses built in the clapboard house neighborhood. Through the years he had kept his home in it’s original condition. The house was painted slate blue. The door, trim, porch columns and picket fence were painted an off white. His lawn stayed green and neatly trimmed year around. His flowery garden abounded with an assortment of colorful and scented flowers. Tall and white Shasta daisies, scented English Lavender, giant yellow marigolds, orange, red and yellow mums and roses of every shade and color, snuggled tightly against the off white picket fence.
Right after coffee, the retired vet brought out the American flag and proudly displayed it on the porch column nearest the door. With military precision he stood at attention and saluted the flag, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. He did this every morning except when it rained. Over the years several American flags had been stolen off the flag pole in the center of his yard. He suspected it to be the work of anti-patriots, and would say, “Who else!” Long after the war had been over some people were still angry and hurting over their financial situation. Others, over the loss of loved ones; in what some considered to have been an uncompromising and senseless war. The retired vet told my dad. “As an American patriot, one must be ready to answer the call to wholeheartedly serve his country”.
Like all the residents in the neighborhood, we struggled to make ends meet. And as if things weren’t bad enough we lived next to the most awful house in the neighborhood, possibly in the whole world. The house had been abandoned years ago and was in such dilapidated condition it leaned like a hat cocked to one side. An old man who lived a few houses down the street would go to the trouble of getting up from his chair when he would see us playing at the old house. And holding his bent back with his hand, hollered out, “ Hey! You kids! Stay away from that old house! It’s going to collapse at any moment and you don’t want to be caught in it when it does!.. Now get away from there and go and play somewhere else! Or better yet, go home! Go on, go home; or I will tell your dads when I see them!”, In those days parents, especially dads were respected.
“Aw! What does he know?”, said Trey and scanned the ground for the perfect size rock. “He’s got loose and missing boards on his porch. He told my dad the land lord said he was going to send someone to fix his porch weeks ago. And to this day no one has been there to fix it. His house will fall before this one does.” Trey found the rock he was looking for. Drew his arm way back and threw the rock at one of the windows with a hole in the glass, sending pieces of flying glass against the wall.
Jimmy Bells, the youngest of the three spoke up, “My mom said if you break a window you will have seven years bad luck and that is a long, long time.
Think how old you will be in seven years?
I was hitting a tree with a long stick and said to Jimmy Bells,” That’s for mirrors not broken windows.”
“O, it is? Well, what’s the difference anyway? You can still see yourself.” said Jimmy and scratched the back of his leg with his other foot. “The difference is... that one is a window and the other is a mirror. That’s, what’s the difference.” I kept hitting the tree until the stick broke, went flying and landed on the roof of the old house. The yard in the old clapboard house was over gown with weeds and littered with tires and household trash. The front door always rested half open and at an angle. Through a big hole in the kitchen roof rain fell and sun shined over a winding green ivy. Every spring the same ivy crept from under the rotten floorboards, zig zagged across the kitchen floor and out through a broken window. Through another hole in the living room ceiling doves with outstretched wings flew in and out through warm beams of yellow sunshine and stood on the rafters under summer rain showers, rustling their smooth and glossy feathered wings then softly cooed on the shady nooks of the abandoned
house.