Sense-of-Place

The ferocious waves slapped against the shoreline, spitting mist and bits of white foam into the crisp air. The gray clouds conquering the sky like a vast cotton blanket of darkness responded with the occasional crack of thunder. Rain beat down hard onto the backs of seagulls desperately searching for cover. The gloom was a plague that reached the toes of everything in the vicinity. Everything, that is, except a small wooden hut daintily perched atop a towering hill rising from the ocean. It observed the storm with a sort of wisdom and knowledge that pleased it, because it had lived a long life and knew many secrets. Its small form looked ready to be swept away by the wind like a miniscule piece of dust, but it sat firmly on the hill, proud of its resistance. A large oak tree curved over it, partially shading it from the merciless rain pelting from the heavens. Inside the hut, a crackling fire burned merrily in the hearth, and a large, cushioned armchair stood invitingly before it. There was a cozy-looking four-poster bed in the corner of the single room, its colorful quilt pulled back and the mattress still warm. A kettle dangled before the fire, the hot water inside bubbling and boiling like children frolicking on a warm summer’s day, the pot whistling along, too. Over on the corner opposite the bed, a little table was placed with two sides against the wall, with windows bearing cheerful, yellow-flowered curtains directly above them. A single three-legged stool was beside the table, and the remains of a berry pie was on a china plate beside it. Near the table was a wooden cupboard, the door ajar. The door on the other side of the room swung open as if a ghost had entered, and, from outside, the pleasantly fresh smell of petrichor wafted in, signaling that the rain had lessened. Emerging from the clouds, the sun shone, a bright light illuminating all the earth. Out the window of the hut, a gorgeous rainbow arched across the sky, basking in the glory of both sun and rain. The little hut sighed and creaked slightly at the wonderful sight. What a great view, thought the hut. I hope another storm comes one day. And, with that, the hut gave a huge yawn and fell fast asleep. The floral curtains slid closed, the fire lessened to glowing embers, the kettle was still, and the covers of the bed slowly were pulled over the mattress.  And although the hut was empty, it would always be full to the brim with memories of Home. Linden Grace Koshland, 11Berkeley, CA Hannah Parker, 13Burlington, VT

“Cousins!” I hear a little voice call. Two small, sticky hands wrap themselves around my legs. I see two shining blue eyes beaming up at me. “Pauline!” I turn around to see Uncle Brendan and Aunt Kathy striding toward me, warm smiles spread across their faces. I hug my uncle, and immediately I inhale the sweet, piercing fragrance of pine trees, a whole forest of them. He makes me want to go deep into the forest brush and take a sip from a cool, fresh stream. I bury my face into Aunt Kathy, and the warm, homey aroma of fresh hot cookies draws me in. But I am pulled away from them all too soon and led out by another pair of sticky hands to where the grass is up to my thigh. I then see the old, ragged tire swing I’ve known for more than half of my life. I run toward it and slide on, for even though it appears as if the slightest tap will cause it to collapse to the ground, it can be trusted. The tree begins to sway and creak slightly as I glide serenely from side to side. I slip off, and jog over to the wooden fence out where the cows graze. I lean over to stroke their bristly coat and fish around in my pocket for my leftover apple slices to feed them. “Come on, Pauline!” more laughing cousins shout. “We’re collecting wood for the fire!” My cousins are all sorts of ages, sizes, shapes, and hues, but to us that matters no more than the types of clothes we wear. The soles of our shoes have walked the same ground, so we always play together as one. I hurry to catch up with my cousins and we set off, a little wagon rumbling behind us. We find all sorts of wood around old barns so frail no one had the heart to knock them down. Driftwood, bark, pine cones, wood chips, even a long, slender black leg from a piano with missing keys. We bring it all back to Uncle Brendan, and we watch him whittle away on the sticks as we savor the captivating sunset. Any northern sunset can be beautiful, but a North Carolina sunset is really something special. The fading sunlight leaks through the trees like water through a strainer. Uncle Brendan adds the shavings to the mountain of wood, which erupts into flames. We gather in a circle around the fire, shoulder to shoulder, sitting on logs, chuckling with each other in the firelight. There are grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins and more cousins. Everybody. Sparks dance in the air, like little lanterns held by invisible hands as we begin toasting the marshmallows and popcorn. The smoke rising up through the curls of flame gives off a wondrous scent. It smells of Uncle Brendan’s pine trees and Aunt Kathy’s cookies. It smells of sticky hands and old rundown barns. It smells of almost-burnt marshmallows and popcorn. It smells of home. Home sweet home. Pauline McAndrew, 9Larchmont, NY Hannah Parker, 13Burlington, VT

“Cousins!” I hear a little voice call. Two small, sticky hands wrap themselves around my legs. I see two shining blue eyes beaming up at me. “Pauline!” I turn around to see Uncle Brendan and Aunt Kathy striding toward me, warm smiles spread across their faces. I hug my uncle, and immediately I inhale the sweet, piercing fragrance of pine trees, a whole forest of them. He makes me want to go deep into the forest brush and take a sip from a cool, fresh stream. I bury my face into Aunt Kathy, and the warm, homey aroma of fresh hot cookies draws me in. But I am pulled away from them all too soon and led out by another pair of sticky hands to where the grass is up to my thigh. I then see the old, ragged tire swing I’ve known for more than half of my life. I run toward it and slide on, for even though it appears as if the slightest tap will cause it to collapse to the ground, it can be trusted. The tree begins to sway and creak slightly as I glide serenely from side to side. I slip off, and jog over to the wooden fence out where the cows graze. I lean over to stroke their bristly coat and fish around in my pocket for my leftover apple slices to feed them. “Come on, Pauline!” more laughing cousins shout. “We’re collecting wood for the fire!” My cousins are all sorts of ages, sizes, shapes, and hues, but to us that matters no more than the types of clothes we wear. The soles of our shoes have walked the same ground, so we always play together as one. I hurry to catch up with my cousins and we set off, a little wagon rumbling behind us. We find all sorts of wood around old barns so frail no one had the heart to knock them down. Driftwood, bark, pine cones, wood chips, even a long, slender black leg from a piano with missing keys. We bring it all back to Uncle Brendan, and we watch him whittle away on the sticks as we savor the captivating sunset. Any northern sunset can be beautiful, but a North Carolina sunset is really something special. The fading sunlight leaks through the trees like water through a strainer. Uncle Brendan adds the shavings to the mountain of wood, which erupts into flames. We gather in a circle around the fire, shoulder to shoulder, sitting on logs, chuckling with each other in the firelight. There are grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins and more cousins. Everybody. Sparks dance in the air, like little lanterns held by invisible hands as we begin toasting the marshmallows and popcorn. The smoke rising up through the curls of flame gives off a wondrous scent. It smells of Uncle Brendan’s pine trees and Aunt Kathy’s cookies. It smells of sticky hands and old rundown barns. It smells of almost-burnt marshmallows and popcorn. It smells of home. Home sweet home. Pauline McAndrew, 9Larchmont, NY Hannah Parker, 13Burlington, VT