That Old Memorable House

There once was a house. This was not just any ordinary house. The house had a name, it had a life, but most of all, it had a story. Little children who were lucky enough to grow up in this house learned all too often that it was actually a home.

The heaters would blast gusts of soul-warming air when you sat next to them in the morning of a cold, harsh winter. And in the heat of the summer, when you stood below the air conditioner, it would cool off the sweat that had wet your hair from chasing lightning bugs for clear mason jars.

There were little nooks and crannies where those looking for shelter from preying brothers or sisters could hide.

The roof - although “off limits” - was steep in most parts but had lots of peaks where you could grip your toes on the grainy, gritty, grey shingles and stare at the night sky. You would have to tiptoe when you went on the roof so as not to wake your parents, but it was worth it.

Just outside the back door was a wonderland of grass and a tree that you could climb. The side of the house adorned a green hose that would keep you cool in the summer time when you didn’t feel like swimming. It would also provide lots of laughs when you tried to give the dog water with it.

The pool was above ground. Its lumpy bottom would gather little spots of algae that you would help your mother scrape off with your toes because the vacuum couldn’t reach it. We built a deck around that pool. It was 3 story’s...just like our home.

The horseshoe pits were the symbol of my father’s Sunday morning games. A thing he would treat himself to for a hard week’s work. You would often wake to that sound of metal clanking metal and laughter in the backyard.

Saturday mornings were reserved for cartoons and homemade breakfasts. Most times, my father would sit on this little stool and cook up bacon, eggs, French toast, and some of the best toast you have ever had in your life. I miss the waking up to the smell of his cooking. Occasionally, he would buy towers of cereal and stack them up on the kitchen table for you to wake up to. He would write little notes on the boxes that would make you laugh in the morning. Like little quotes coming from the mouths of the children on a box of Cinnamon Life cereal. Or maybe there would be a tear in the box and he would point an arrow to it suggesting that my one year old brother had opened it. He would come home and call us his “little gargoyles”.

My mother would spend late nights making our lunches for the next day. Sometimes, she would have to wake up early to make them because she had been too tired the night before. Around Easter, you would consistently find hardboiled egg sandwiches in the brown paper bag. Most times, you would be the envy of all the class with the goodies she would pack for you.

I often miss this place I once called home.

I don’t know why it had to go away.