So I choose to write about My great-grandfather (the father of my grandmother from my mother’s side).
My great-grandfather’s house was always a place of great mystery, of secrecy, of quiet and harmony, of imprisonment, great magic and unknown power and loneliness. He died when I was 12 years old and he was on he’s 70s and I remember at least five occasions that I passed the day in his house. Probably the time he was in the hospital, he had stomach cancer and died from it.
The house was huge for me only one floor nothing above...just an attic. It had added rooms to match the needs of the time like all the old houses in my island. They all started with two rooms, a kitchen and an outside toilet, not a proper toilet like the modern ones more like the Edwardian times, and when the family grew, more rooms were added matching the family needs.
So this big house of my great grandfather was in a huge land... not huge for a rich person but huge for the common ones. Three times bigger than the house. There was a vegetable garden, grape vines, banana trees and many other fruit trees, on the right side he had a place to make wine in front of it he had a wall with seats in the wall where the grape leaves covered and offer the seater cold shade while they were enchanted with the beautiful view of the city and the sea, that vast blue sea. In the house there was a special room where old things were kept. The food cages that I thought it was for birds, my great-grandmother’s long chair made from cane. That I manage to keep although it was crumble down to pieces. My treasure room... I was forbidden to walking in... the floor was old and I could fall down in a hole.
I like old houses and it’s the only place when I’m really nosy... it’s an archaeological site... full of great wonders, old relics... You never know what you can find.