Читать книгу Over the Spiked Picket Fence - Angela Aloisio Sander & Denvil Buchanan - Страница 13

Soon Papa saved enough money and moved us to a place called Woodbridge, a place above the city. This was a house adorned with heavy pieces of furniture and all imaginable cement statues and fountains. It was a place stripped of old maple and pine trees, not far from the rapidly growing metropolis. My father took special pride in the fact that our house of brick and stone, with three spacious garages, loomed high above the rest. It was a large, imposing house enclosed by the tall spiked picket fence which guarded us from the riffraff who defined the under-belly of the city.

This house was so different from the one that I had grown up in. It could not be compared with my farmhouse by the natural stream and rolling meadows. Most of all I missed the warmth of my grandmama singing songs and telling old stories. The old town was a place where the family was all, family meant everything.

I grew up believing that what mattered most were the people that you loved. Was this cardinal rule now a faded memory, after a too long trip from home to the faraway life of my papa’s dream?

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