By Jamie Burns
I always loved my grandmother’s house. It was down a long dirt road that passed fields with horses and usually grazing deer. Past the fields was the forest filled with tall strong pine and oak trees. Then tucked at the base of a beautiful mountain range was my Grandmother's house. A small simple A-frame home with tall windows all along its front.
The time I spent there as a kid always felt warm, cozy, inviting, all the things you expect from your Grandmother. As I look back now the place felt like magic, not just because of the house but because of the forest it sat in. It had everything, heavily wooded forests and brief openings into golden fields of tall grass. A creek that ran along the back achers, and a spring of clear water that flowed right from the side of the hill in the backyard. There were walking trails all over the property, my brother and I would race down one in particular to a large group of rocks that we liked to climb on. My brother would always win, since he was four years older than me and two feet taller, I never did gain the advantage.
My time there was filled with skinned knees and sticker bushes, but also things like baked cookies and picnics. It was a place for pretend and wonder, a place where all things were possible. My imagination would tell me that fairies or giants lived in those woods and they liked it when I came to visit. I would be a warrior, a princess, an explorer, I could be stranded on an island, in a tomb, or even on another planet. The perfect canvas for my adventurous mind.
As an adult I know that a place like that was the best gift I could have ever had as a child. I wish I could somehow give that kind of gift to everyone.
I told myself that it was impossible. So the next best thing I could do was sit down and write. If you don’t have a place to explore and imagine, or you’re feeling like you imagination is too tired, feel free to use mine. Copyright: 2016 JAMIE BURNS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.