To the right of the staircase stood the entrance to the kitchen, which had a bare dirt floor. Near the entrance, a makeshift board - patched together from weathered timber planks and propped against the wall - served as a barrier to keep chickens, ducks, and the occasional dog from wandering inside.
Behind the family members shown in the above photograph, just out of frame, was a small balcony - about four feet by six feet - without railings. Despite its modest size, that balcony holds some of my fondest childhood memories. It was there, in that humble space, that my mother would often gather us to share old tales and folk stories. Her vivid storytelling captivated our young minds and sparked our imaginations. On warm evenings after dinner, we’d lie on our backs, staring at the clouds drifting by and watching birds, eagles, and bats glide silently across the twilight sky.
Every Chinese New Year morning, we kids would jump out of bed with excitement, rushing outside to light firecrackers and toss them across the dirt compound. The true spirit of the celebration came alive when the earth turned crimson with the remnants of spent firecrackers - a joyful, festive sight that still lingers in my memory.
The house itself was modest in both design and construction, built with materials that would be considered substandard by today’s standards. Yet, it was the place where I spent the greater part of my childhood and teenage years. Despite its humble appearance, it was a home filled with warmth, laughter, and love.
Every creaking floorboard, every patched wall, every improvised fixture had a story of its own - and together, they formed the backdrop of a life rich in simple joys and cherished moments. To this day, I carry with me many fond memories of that first home. Whenever I think of it, a deep sense of comfort and nostalgia washes over me, as if part of my heart still resides within its old wooden walls.
So glad you found these old photos. Really puts so much context to all the childhood stories you told us
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