The Writing 101’s Day 11 challenge is to write about where you lived when you were twelve. I’ve covered the age of twelve, and revisiting my childhood home, in other posts, but this one is different. As I began thinking about my old house, lots of things came back to me, and I’ve tried to capture a few of them here.
When I was twelve, I lived in a two-story red house on the corner of Pine Street and Main. The local Pioneer was across the street to the north, and we had a huge back yard. At least, I thought it was huge. Then again, I thought the house was huge, too. Trees filled the yard, and flower beds existed in various states of decay. They weren’t the only things in that state.
If I close my eyes, I can still see the white linoleum that was always dirty near the front door and the peeling wallpaper of the dining room. I can still see the sun glaring off the screen of our old RCA TV (’80s vintage, of course). I can still see the colorful patchwork of carpet hidden by all the crap that littered my room and the kitten posters on my seafoam green bedroom walls.
My mom hated that color – she wanted me to pick something a shade darker, but I loved it. It was better than the ugly shade of blue that matched my parents’ bedroom, and a heck of a lot better than the Pepto Bismol pink…