If I close my eyes really really tight, I can walk up the front sidewalk, climb the precarious cement steps, and open the brass door knob on the left side of the large double doors. Once inside, I could describe the rooms therein in great detail. Down to the scratch on my brother’s closet door. Made when he tried to run me through with a sword. A real sword.
Good thinking, mom and dad.
I have wonderful memories of my childhood home. Save for the hideous saber sword incident. We lived there from the early 60’s until the early 70’s, when we left the Cincinnati area to move back to Texas.
I’ve always wanted to go back to see that house. To see if the fruit trees that my dad planted were still there. And if the live Christmas tree we planted after it served it’s purpose in the living room was still in the front yard.
I never have.
Now, I may get to see it on the news. From the comfort of my own living room.
•That’s a house made for crisp snowy Christmas mornings.
•For snow fights and sled rides in the front yard.
•For all night slumber parties in the den, listening to the “Partridge Family” album until my red-eyed parents said the LP vinyl was irreparably worn out.
•For Thanksgiving dinners around the fancy dining room table in the fancy dining room which we were not ordinarily allowed in. Sitting in impossibly uncomfortable antique chairs.
•For white shag carpet that had to be raked daily. With a real rake.
•For throwing beloved Barbies down the stairs in their Barbie car, recreating horrific automobile accidents. Over and over.
•For making Gingerbread men cakes with my mom, and then decorating them before eating the entire thing in one sitting.
•For getting sick, and getting to lounge around in my parent’s bed all day. Watching “Days of Our Lives”, and “Dark Shadows.”
•For catching fireflies in the backyard on warm starlit nights.
•For crying for days at the thought of moving away forever. And looking back, one last time. A memory etched in my mind some 35 years later.
That’s not a house where drugs are to be cooked. And then distributed. Quite possibly to children no older than I was when I lived there.
I was trying to explain to Fiddledaddy why that story affected me so deeply. And I’ve concluded it’s because that’s the last house that I lived in where I felt any sort of childhood stability. Before we started moving every single year for the next 4 years. And before my family was forever fractured by divorce.
Childhood innocence. A time when my mom would watch us fly out the door in the mornings, and not expect us back before dinner. Days long gone.
This bit of information will most certainly spice up my posts about my childhood.
Evidently, I did hail from the wrong side of the tracks.
It just took me 35 years to figure it out.
My house in 1971 (looking nothing like a crack house)