A tight, squeaky voice echoed through the halls as I crept barefoot on the decaying yellow tile. Though the voice was strained, tired, and high pitched in a lousy effort to sing, the song brought good tidings for the early, chilly morning. The house was dark, as it usually was at five o'clock in the morning. We were to be roused early in order to meet the country bus that took us to our school seven miles into town. Therefore, the only light that was typically left on was the kitchen's, signaling a beckon of warmth while enticing us with the sweet waft of homemade hot chocolate. I followed the voice and the smell, hardly noticing the dirty floors and various chairs surrounding the circular family table. The yellow and green tiled walls added to the agricultural setting when the house was built in the early fifties. The kitchen was long, not too wide; allowing a family of five, such as mine, to fit comfortably. Many times, the table we ate at would break apart and send my father into fits of fury at his failed attempts to keep the two halves a whole. Around the table were five different chairs, most of which did not match and further added to my parent's frustration. The right side of the kitchen held a semicircle of cheap appliances that hugged the wall. It was my mother's way of hiding the yellow and sage green tiles connected to the wall; a choice previously made by the original builders. Bothering my parents to no end, they tried to hide the tiled walls with many household appliances, only to find that we never had enough money to buy what we needed.
My mother was standing at the stove with a smile plastered on her face as she stirred her homemade hot chocolate in the large chilli vat. As I neared the table to sit, she would ask me the usual question while serving my tiny blue cup of cocoa: “Where is your brother and sister?”
“Sleeping still...” I would answer drowsily and quite moody.
Abandoning the hot chocolate, my mother would leave the kitchen to get the others up and ready for school. Allowing time for my own reflection, I would eat the piece of jellied toast on the table and stare about the room without much wonderment or care.
When my sister and brother finally joined us, my mother would brave the cold weather and feed the horses. My brother, sister, and I would sit around the circular table at the left end of the room and hardly talk from being so sleepy. Since the kitchen had no heating, we were forced to share a blanket, making it hard and hilarious for us to eat our food My older sister, believing herself to be funny, would lean over and fart, while my little brother would eat his cereal with his eyes closed. After a few moments, the kitchen came to life with laughter. The sun would rise, and the room would get warmer, allowing us to no longer miss the heat from our beds and share the blanket at the table. Though the room wasn't exactly cozy, and may have represented hardship for my parents; my brother, sister and I didn't expect anything greater than what we've always known. What did we care that we could feel dirt under our feet, or see the ground in unfinished corners of the house? It was merely just a room.
To my parents, this house was outdated, but to me, the kitchen was just a kitchen. The frustrations that framed my parent's mind about our kitchen had never bothered me. In fact, if this outdated kitchen had taught me anything, it was that I was fortunate enough to learn the art of humility and simplicity.
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