The Youngest Blog.

Oct. 13, 2011 at 4:32pm with 104 notes

Reblogged from twloha

twloha:

The Bungalow.Two weeks from today will mark the four year anniversary of the day I threw all of my possessions into two garbage bags, put them in my truck, and drove eight hours from Atlanta, GA to Cocoa, FL to become the first official intern of To Write Love on Her Arms. The morning I left, I printed out directions to The Bungalow to ride as my passenger (this is how people navigated the land once upon a time before a GPS was a likely possession). I stopped by Chick-Fil-A for breakfast to eat on the road, and I began my drive down I-75 without realizing I’d revisit the place I had known my entire life only five times over the next four years—without realizing I was driving toward a new kind of home.I assumed I was driving to a house on the beach, to be quite honest. A house on the beach with lively young neighbors and burrito stands all around. When you live west of Atlanta all of your life, this is the kind of romance you create in your head about places outside your bubble. As I made my way toward the city of Cocoa, a water tower with a giant American flag painted on it came into view. I share this because a couple days before I left that water tower was in the background of a CNN story covering gas station robberies and shootings in Cocoa. It was also when I realized I had about a mile and a half to go before I reached my destination. The butterflies came. So did a little rain. And with a left turn I pulled into the driveway of a yellow house with pink shutters and a white fence that had pineapples cutouts, and there was a little sign over the door that simply read “Welcome to Our Bungalow.”Byron greeted me, and we walked through the door. The house had Ikea boxes in each room, and I was a fresh face ready to do anything and assemble everything. It’s how I spent my first night there, putting all that furniture together. The house was empty and mine, well mainly TWLOHA’s, and I didn’t know for how long. I didn’t quite know how many people would walk through that broken old door over the next four years. I didn’t realize how many people would sleep on the couches and bunk beds I built that first night when I was scared and couldn’t keep my eyes closed. I didn’t quite know I would have over a hundred strangers sleep in the backyard or on the floor during a month and a half of spring break, and that a few of them would be the most important people in my life today. I didn’t quite know how many people would call that house their home, and I feel lucky to have been the first.For all that those walls witnessed and for the home we made there, I would like to share some of the memories from other people who have called The Bungalow home.Chris
Read other memories from the Bungalow…

I wrote an intro piece to everyone who wanted to share what The Bungalow meant to them after four years of having it in the TWLOHA name. If you didn’t get to contribute, but have something to share, feel free to reblog and do so. Farewell, white pineapple fence.

The Bungalow.

Two weeks from today will mark the four year anniversary of the day I threw all of my possessions into two garbage bags, put them in my truck, and drove eight hours from Atlanta, GA to Cocoa, FL to become the first official intern of To Write Love on Her Arms. The morning I left, I printed out directions to The Bungalow to ride as my passenger (this is how people navigated the land once upon a time before a GPS was a likely possession). I stopped by Chick-Fil-A for breakfast to eat on the road, and I began my drive down I-75 without realizing I’d revisit the place I had known my entire life only five times over the next four years—without realizing I was driving toward a new kind of home.

I assumed I was driving to a house on the beach, to be quite honest. A house on the beach with lively young neighbors and burrito stands all around. When you live west of Atlanta all of your life, this is the kind of romance you create in your head about places outside your bubble. As I made my way toward the city of Cocoa, a water tower with a giant American flag painted on it came into view. I share this because a couple days before I left that water tower was in the background of a CNN story covering gas station robberies and shootings in Cocoa. It was also when I realized I had about a mile and a half to go before I reached my destination. The butterflies came. So did a little rain. And with a left turn I pulled into the driveway of a yellow house with pink shutters and a white fence that had pineapples cutouts, and there was a little sign over the door that simply read “Welcome to Our Bungalow.”

Byron greeted me, and we walked through the door. The house had Ikea boxes in each room, and I was a fresh face ready to do anything and assemble everything. It’s how I spent my first night there, putting all that furniture together. The house was empty and mine, well mainly TWLOHA’s, and I didn’t know for how long. I didn’t quite know how many people would walk through that broken old door over the next four years. I didn’t realize how many people would sleep on the couches and bunk beds I built that first night when I was scared and couldn’t keep my eyes closed. I didn’t quite know I would have over a hundred strangers sleep in the backyard or on the floor during a month and a half of spring break, and that a few of them would be the most important people in my life today. I didn’t quite know how many people would call that house their home, and I feel lucky to have been the first.

For all that those walls witnessed and for the home we made there, I would like to share some of the memories from other people who have called The Bungalow home.

Chris

Read other memories from the Bungalow…

I wrote an intro piece to everyone who wanted to share what The Bungalow meant to them after four years of having it in the TWLOHA name. If you didn’t get to contribute, but have something to share, feel free to reblog and do so. Farewell, white pineapple fence.