The Oasis

[I unearthed a bunch of stuff I wrote a long time ago, and sifting through it brought a smile to my face.  This one in particular is a favorite, I wrote it for a college English class-- the assignment was to take a favorite writer, analyze his or her writing style, and then write something of your own but in that writer's style.  My first attempt got trashed by my teacher but he gave me another chance and this was the result.  See if you can guess the writer I was emulating?  I'll reveal it at the end.  -- Ben]

“The Oasis”

After plunging ahead through the hectics of daily life, the city driving, the driving work, the responsibilities to shoulder, the bills to pay, and other adult burdens, I can joyfully call back the serenity experienced as a boy when I would go and visit my grandparents.

My grandparents’ house was not very big and yet full of rooms, having a kitchen, dining room, living room, den, three bedrooms and two baths all crammed into a single story flat, but it was a place of much happiness, clean and warm, always friendly.

My grandmother’s kitchen always dominated the whole house, permeating it choice aromas of cooking ham, or basting turkey, or maybe a freshly baked pumpkin or apple pie.  And I knew that, if I was good, and I always was before mealtime, I wouldn’t have to fidget too much before I could let my stomach in on the secret my nose had discovered.

The inside of the house was kept in meticulous care by my grandmother, and it was always filled with things, breakable things just waiting to get a boy in trouble.  Bottles from Israel filled with water from the Dead Sea, funny looking wooden carvings from Hawaii, glass figurines.  Nothing fun.  For fun, you were sent outside.

The outside was cared for just as meticulously by my grandfather.  No weeds growing in the cracks in the sidewalk.  The smell of fresh cut grass and bushes filled the air.  And the flowers, the petunias, begonias, and red and yellow Dutch tulips.

Looking back, though, the source of the most boyhood wonderment was in my grandfather’s garden with my grandfather.  Among the tall corn plants, the pungent tomatos, green peppers, onions, and the ever-sweet strawberries, I would hear the stories of old, back when my grandfather was a boy back in the 1920s, how they only had one light bulb at a time in the house, and for Christmas would get their yearly pair of shoes, and how he accidentally took his brother’s fingers off with an axe.

It was hard to try and think of my grandfather as a boy, but my grandparents had an old wooden chest, it seemed huge back then, carved with all sorts of scenes and designs, and inside was filled with enough things to keep a boy busy, things not so fragile, like pictures of him as a boy, him and my grandmother as a young couple, my mother and aunts as babies, wedding announcements, graduation annoucements, postcards, papers, and other bits of memorabilia. 

And when I rode home, I would often doze off, curled up in the back seat unless I was picking on my little sister, and I would reflect on what I learned there, about love and family, and history and family, and then my mind would wander to things more important to boyhood thoughts.

–inspired by Mark Twain

[My instructor wrote on the bottom:  "A genuine imitation in subject and mood, but at the same time your own work of art.  My compliments!"  I was so proud ]