Feeling nostalgic the other day, I decided to drive by the house I grew up in. I lived there for 10 years before I moved. It's where my parents brought me home from the hospital, where I had many playmates and friends all up and down the street and where I met my best friend. It's where I lost my first (two) teeth and got $8 from the Tooth Fairy. It's where, as kids, my brother, sister and I would slide down the hand carved banister, play Barbies in the play room, and drench the floors of our once-kitchen bedroom and slide across the floor. We told ghost stories and saw real ghosts, or so we were convinced. We spent hours and hours making mud pies in the back yard, playing on the swing set, running around, bringing the mailman lemonade, swatting flies as my dad barbecued and of course, climbing the giant tree in the back yard. There was a notch that seemed perfectly placed for a child's foot and a decently low first branch to sit on. I miss that house, and the memories that it holds.
When I lived there there wasn't a big privacy
fence, the porch was painted in brown and yellow and the slopes in the
front were filled with giant rocks, not grass.
Of course, there are bad memories as well, like the time I stepped on a bee (ouch!), smashed my hand through the glass front door, and when my puppy got out and got hit by a car. I was dressed like a little cowgirl that day, as the person who ran over my dog just drove off. There are many other bad memories as well, but I won't dwell on those.
From what I remember, this house was always home, and it was nice to see it again.