I've heard the story so many times of our first home, the home my sister and I grew up in, that there are bits and pieces of my memory that I can no longer tell if they are made up or real.
I was barely 5 when my parents toured the neighborhood next to my grandparents house. We must have pulled onto either before the agents on duty started their shift or after they'd all gone home. My parents parked in the driveway of the house I would spend my entire childhood. I can feel myself on my father's hip, smell his cologne on his button up... My mother, forever nosy, peered through each screen as best as she could to catch a glimpse of the layout. They were in love. They were in love with each other and smitten beyond reason with this little 3 bedroom 2 bath ranch home with a great big backyard. I can see my parents waving their hands over the yard, dreaming out loud of garden space, where a shed could go, how big a clothesline they should have, where my swing set would go...
Although they tried each door, nothing would budge as they'd all been locked tight. Despite the doors being locked, my dad was determined to get my mother and I inside to dream some more. He placed set me down and began looking for unlatched windows along the backside of the house. Once he reached the master bedroom window, he began prying the screen off gently so as to not damage it in the process. This was my first lesson in breaking and entering and I learned everything I knew from my father. He was able to shimmy the window open and picked me up again. He let me look through the window before placing me inside. He and my mother walked me step by step how to go from the bedroom to the front door and what I needed to do to unlock the deadbolt and let them in.
I like to imagine, as I can't distinctly remember doing this, that once I was inside I explored on my own first. That my little voice would call out that I was working on opening the door or that I'd accidentally gone into the wrong room. Little me would be so innocent, walking into my soon to be bedroom... maybe my hands would brush along the wall where I got my first real kiss, how my back would be pressed up against my bedroom door to listen to footsteps as we would kiss again... and again... and again... all in between painting murals on my bedroom wall located conveniently behind that bedroom door. Little me might even curl up in the same place on the closet floor as I'd done over and over again over the timeline of my adolescence. I had laid on that floor many times when overwhelmed, specifically after my sister was born, wondering if anyone would miss me if I disappeared.
I know that I succeeded in opening the door for them eventually. I can barely recall the details of the original wallpaper and flooring. The trim is all the same still, but we've lost a bay window over the years and replaced it with a standard window. I remember the strawberries on blue gingham wallpaper in our kitchen, or maybe that was the Corning ware my mother was obsessed with at that point in the mid to late 80's. How many Disney movies did we watch together as a family on Friday nights? My mother would swing by the Disney Store at the mall on her lunch breaks when she worked in downtown Atlanta and pick up the latest "fresh from the vault" flick and all four of us would make a huge deal out of it. I remember my sister being so small and so tired during our first watch of The Jungle Book that my mother signaled for my father to look while Jenna's little foot would twitch in an attempt to keep herself awake, meanwhile her eyes would flutter and roll telling a completely different story of alertness.
I walked that house alone for who knows how long before letting them in... looking back now I joke that I was an accomplice to my father's breaking and entering crime. He claims that it wasn't breaking and entering as nothing got broken and the front door was unlocked for him.
What memories will my children have of the home/homes they grew up in when they're my age. Will they remember the dreams their father and I held for them as we walked the empty bedrooms, will they remember me nursing their brother while I signed the paperwork in the middle of the stairway as Lou was hungry RIGHT THEN? I write all this knowing that I have to renew my lease within the next two months. Knowing that I want to run away from this town that their father has discolored over the past few years. Knowing that I want to be able to see a "home" that hasn't experienced negativity and intense sage smudging just to change the vibe. What will they remember? Will their childhood home hold as much potential in their minds?
I was barely 5 when my parents toured the neighborhood next to my grandparents house. We must have pulled onto either before the agents on duty started their shift or after they'd all gone home. My parents parked in the driveway of the house I would spend my entire childhood. I can feel myself on my father's hip, smell his cologne on his button up... My mother, forever nosy, peered through each screen as best as she could to catch a glimpse of the layout. They were in love. They were in love with each other and smitten beyond reason with this little 3 bedroom 2 bath ranch home with a great big backyard. I can see my parents waving their hands over the yard, dreaming out loud of garden space, where a shed could go, how big a clothesline they should have, where my swing set would go...
Although they tried each door, nothing would budge as they'd all been locked tight. Despite the doors being locked, my dad was determined to get my mother and I inside to dream some more. He placed set me down and began looking for unlatched windows along the backside of the house. Once he reached the master bedroom window, he began prying the screen off gently so as to not damage it in the process. This was my first lesson in breaking and entering and I learned everything I knew from my father. He was able to shimmy the window open and picked me up again. He let me look through the window before placing me inside. He and my mother walked me step by step how to go from the bedroom to the front door and what I needed to do to unlock the deadbolt and let them in.
I like to imagine, as I can't distinctly remember doing this, that once I was inside I explored on my own first. That my little voice would call out that I was working on opening the door or that I'd accidentally gone into the wrong room. Little me would be so innocent, walking into my soon to be bedroom... maybe my hands would brush along the wall where I got my first real kiss, how my back would be pressed up against my bedroom door to listen to footsteps as we would kiss again... and again... and again... all in between painting murals on my bedroom wall located conveniently behind that bedroom door. Little me might even curl up in the same place on the closet floor as I'd done over and over again over the timeline of my adolescence. I had laid on that floor many times when overwhelmed, specifically after my sister was born, wondering if anyone would miss me if I disappeared.
I know that I succeeded in opening the door for them eventually. I can barely recall the details of the original wallpaper and flooring. The trim is all the same still, but we've lost a bay window over the years and replaced it with a standard window. I remember the strawberries on blue gingham wallpaper in our kitchen, or maybe that was the Corning ware my mother was obsessed with at that point in the mid to late 80's. How many Disney movies did we watch together as a family on Friday nights? My mother would swing by the Disney Store at the mall on her lunch breaks when she worked in downtown Atlanta and pick up the latest "fresh from the vault" flick and all four of us would make a huge deal out of it. I remember my sister being so small and so tired during our first watch of The Jungle Book that my mother signaled for my father to look while Jenna's little foot would twitch in an attempt to keep herself awake, meanwhile her eyes would flutter and roll telling a completely different story of alertness.
I walked that house alone for who knows how long before letting them in... looking back now I joke that I was an accomplice to my father's breaking and entering crime. He claims that it wasn't breaking and entering as nothing got broken and the front door was unlocked for him.
What memories will my children have of the home/homes they grew up in when they're my age. Will they remember the dreams their father and I held for them as we walked the empty bedrooms, will they remember me nursing their brother while I signed the paperwork in the middle of the stairway as Lou was hungry RIGHT THEN? I write all this knowing that I have to renew my lease within the next two months. Knowing that I want to run away from this town that their father has discolored over the past few years. Knowing that I want to be able to see a "home" that hasn't experienced negativity and intense sage smudging just to change the vibe. What will they remember? Will their childhood home hold as much potential in their minds?
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