This always happens to me when I try to write. I start getting extreme writer's block and I just skip out on writing all together. I feel like I get into patterns with my writing and don't bring anything new to the table. It's really lame and I hate it. I don't necessarily care about my grammar or punctuation... I guess trying to free-write while at the same time actually having assignments to write... well, the assignments and class related ones take precedence. Although.. this is technically "for a class." I just feel like I'm writing the same old thing over and over again and I'm not sure if I like it or not. And it's especially hard with three jobs and 17 credit hours. Ugh. I've also been very unhappy in all aspects of life. Work, school, home... especially home. I miss North Carolina.
So, a long time ago, when I was say... 11ish, my grandparents had a small chicken coop. They're notorious for their ever multiple chickens, ducks, dogs, cats, and peacocks. Yes, it's a small farm. They also have a garden that they both tend to every summer and send me off to college with a fresh supply of corn, green beans, carrots, and potatoes. And lots of chicken eggs.
Anyhow, when I was 11, this chicken coop was also a play area for me and my two cousins, Kayla and Sylys. They're all grown up, live in Colorado, and go to college now... This chicken coop had an open area that had a roof, two open windows, a cot looking wooden plank and a "kitchen" (or what me and my cousins liked to call a kitchen). It wasn't the cleanest thing. Dusty, old, rickety and grey... Oh, and smelled pungent of chicken poop. The chicken coop was adjacent to the playhouse and on more than several occasions, we would collect eggs to cook in our kitchen. My grandmother had made many rugs to liven up the place, and we constructed curtains for the empty windows (they got knocked off quite often). This was our playhouse. And we had many an adventure in the chicken coop playhouse.
Once, I entered the house, cousins in tow, and we began reorganizing the place. "Home designer" we called it. As I lifted one of the numerous blankets that littered the place a large, spindly, harry wolf-spider darted off into a corner. I had no idea what a wolf-spider was, or that they were harmless. "Tarantula!" I shrieked, threw down the blanket and got the hell out of the playhouse. We didn't go back very often after that because of the "tarantula infestation."
Another quite traumatizing event happened when I was around 14 years old. I felt nostalgic for the old, grey playhouse and convinced my cousins to feed into my need to go look. I sighed as we examined the old place for soon my grandparents would tear it down and replace it with a big red barn. I had been standing on one of the old rugs that lined the place when suddenly a sharp, horrible pain shot through my leg from my ankle. My eyes shot down and in a split second I realized that angry yellow-jackets had built their nest under this particular rug and I was standing on their home. They wouldn't stand for that, so, as yellow-jackets do, they began to bite me. Once again, I fled the playhouse with such speed that I'm not even sure my cousins realized I had escaped. Yelling loudly at the pain, my immediate response to rid myself of these horrific bugs was to scrape my leg on the ground. I'm not sure when they let go, but before I knew it, my dad had carried me away into the house and my grandma began applying baking soda to my swollen ankle. Luckily, I'm not allergic to bees... So I'm able to tell you about it today.
On a lighter note, the playhouse wasn't just a source of random traumatizing events, it was a source of pretend-time for three little girls who loved to decorate their grey house and make it something of their own. We brought our favorite toys in there as "customers" during the time we agreed it was a restaurant and parents would visit us often so we could give them as elaborate of a tour as the one room area would allow. The barn that now stands in its place is a wonderful barn, the chicken coop is still the same, but I do miss that playhouse from time to time. It wasn't all that bad when you got past the yellow-jackets and tarantulas.
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