I have recently discovered a drawing that I did of the house where I grew up as a child. I can remember doing this and what care I took to make sure the trees were there along with the green shutters. I can remember 1957 because our teacher made such a big deal about the new Lincoln penny. I can remember our family moving into that house in 1955 even though I was 4 years old at the time. It was home.
I wore Mary Jane’s with white anklets. I was learning to write and read and drawing was a passion.
I had a bird named Pretty Boy who like to land on my head and say Merry Christmas.
My school was a short walk from home and the two boys that lived next door where like my brothers that went on endless adventures with me.
The house was my house with a swing in the backyard. A cherished memory of long ago.
What I miss the most is my parents that filled the house with love. I miss their laughter, my mother singing to the radio, and my dad getting excited about the new episode of “The Twilight Zone” coming on. I miss their Christmas parties, my mother’s art projects, and my father’s puttering in the basement.
Even after I had grown up and moved, my parents lived there for many years until my dad took ill and passed away in 1998. It was hard to say good bye to that house. I remember the last time I slept in my bed that I had as a child before moving my mother out the following day. The movers came. And for the first time forty-three years it stood empty. My mom and I gave one last look to say good bye before our long journey to her new home that brought her closer to me.
It was not much. Just a white brick cape cod that was built in 1937 with depression sized closets and radiators that hissed and clanged during the winter months. But for me it was a slice of heaven that I was blessed to have known.