…but you can drive by it.
When I was in sixth grade, we moved from our house on Harvard Rd. to our house on Magnolia Ave. It was a weird move, just across town. I have no idea why we moved specifically. Still, it quickly became home, after we got rid of the dank-ness, and had wallpapered the rooms and such.
Got our dog, Sonja, not long afterwards, if my memory serves.
Lots of memories of things that happened in that house. Visits from the grandparents, cousin, and other family members. Studying for finals with Steve & Joe, and throwing Joe’s books out my bedroom window into the driveway. Getting little seeds thrown at the front window in the middle of the night when a friend needed to talk to someone. Lots of fights with my parents. Lots of nights studying. Lots of mornings waiting for rides to the pool, sitting on the couch, looking out the large living room window.
Sonja, barking as the mailman dropped the mail into the slot. Fixing up a static spark generator with my dad in the garage. Having my foot run over by a guy dropping me off from band practice. The ride up Magnolia Ave. to the pool. The short walk to school. Piano lessons. Lots of piano lessons. Secretly hoping that my piano teacher would be stuck in traffic, or unable to make it. Looking back, and wishing he’d made it more often, and that I’d appreciated it more when he did. I do now.
The light, above my bed, which let me read in the darkness. Sonja, running in the morning down the hall from my parents’ room, to mine, the click, click, click of her nails on the hardwood, and the whoosh of her flying through the air and landing on the bed next to me. The shiny new saxophone in the closet, which my dad showed me after I’d gotten into a really nasty fight with my mom. Listening to my dad playing his one note on the violin, over and over again. Lots of meals. Eating, at 10pm, after a swim workout, with my mom sitting there, watching me eat. I always thought it was weird, but I get it, now.
The smell of opening up the credenza, and getting out the silverware, or the nicer plates, when company came over for dinner. Playing computer games – Terminator 2, I think, with Sean & Kyle one New Year’s Eve. The Commodore 64 on my desk. The one night I had an NES, before my dad made me bring it back to the store for a refund. One solid night of Rygar. My grandfather, talking to me, telling me I have a responsibility to the world to use whatever gifts I have to make it better in whatever way I chose to pursue, as the two of us sat side-by-side on the edge of my bed. Pulling my bike out of the garage, almost every day, and riding it somewhere or another. Mobius, running out the front door, having spent the day in the care of my mom.
The last moments of whatever day, walking down the walkway, and unlocking the door to come home.
On the 22nd, my parents hand over the keys to the house I’d consider my childhood home. Sad, sad they’re moving, but happy for the memories I have now, and will keep forever.
It’s weird, but I don’t really have one place that I think of as my childhood home. After my parents divorced when I was 5, my mom and I moved around a lot, living with various friends and relatives. I changed schools 6 times before I got to jr. high. I went to one school for only 4 days before we moved again. I honestly couldn’t find most of the places I’ve lived if I tried.
This post was lovely. A nice set of memories of a place.
I’m in a similar boat as Chad. My parents didn’t divorce while I lived at home, but we moved houses a lot when I was little, and I went to four different elementary schools.
Wow, that was a wonderful stream of conciousness. I’ve tried and unfortunately had trouble focusing on the good. But that was a while ago, and I think I shall try again. Why are your parents moving/ selling the house?
They’re moving to Long Island, ’cause my dad’s business requires that they do so. They’ve been living more or less apart for the last two years, ’cause he’s been in Montreal for work, so it’ll be nice that they can spend some time together, finally.