The House That Built Me

It has a walk-in closet in my room. I used to knock on the wall that connected to my brother’s room. Sometimes we used it as code to “talk” to each other. Sometimes we banged when we were mad at each other.

It has blue shag carpeting.

It has a squeaky stair in the middle of the staircase.

It has a window in my bedroom and my parent’s that looks out onto the roof – all the better for climbing out to shovel the roof, and jumping into the pile of snow below.

It has a front stoop perfect for sitting on and watching the neighborhood on summer nights.

It has a patch of lawn that once connected to the neighbor’s lawn. Together they made a perfect kickball field.

It is number 25.

It is down the street from the park where I learned to ride my bike, where I played, where I sat and waxed philosophic among teenage angst with my friends.

It was never locked when we’re out for an evening walk with the dogs.

It has a brook next to the driveway that floods after the snow starts to melt, that I lost many balls to, jumped into to rescue my hula hoops, and walked to the other end of down by Mathewson (when it was dried out in the summer).

It has a rose garden.

It is white, with blue shutters. They used to be black.

It has a spot on the carpet where I stepped on a dead mouse that our cats had brought us as a “present.”

It has a counter that once held the bucket for my lunch money.

It has a living room where I fed my dogs from baby bottles, curled up on bright red bean bags, taught school to my dogs, and set up racing courses for my Barbie cadillac.

It had a tree where we took our “First Day of School” pictures, where I used to sit and read. I cried when it got cut down.

It has a bathroom that I remember taking my first shower in, with a window that you can call down to Mom hanging up clothes on the clothesline if you need her.

It has a bathroom once stocked with bandaids for those accidents that sometimes happen.

It has a kitchen that cooked cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings, baked numerous birthday cakes, and where I “cooked” my very first meal – it was for my parents on one of their anniversaries. It was also where I was standing when my Mom came through the door to tell us my Gromp had died.

It has a driveway where we had many lawn sales, where I practiced my bike skills, and where I gave many “dog shows” for the neighbors.

It had a crab apple tree in the backyard. I hated picking up the apples before Mom mowed the lawn.

It had a stereo in the living room where I would record from the radio onto tapes, where I played my Mom’s records and sang, where I danced to “Walk Like an Egyptian” with my Dad.

It has a kitchen table that I used to play underneath with my friends (we were spies), where I had birthday dinners, and where we would talk for hours on weekends.

It has a lilac bush that smells amazing in the spring.

It has a million memories – tears, laughter, love, innocence, childhood.

It’s easy to forget how lucky I was, to live in the same house for my childhood. To be blessed with the stablity and security of a home. It did not understand then how hard my parents worked to make sure that we lived in our house, were safe, and warm. Sometimes, in my work with typically very poor children(financially, and often emotionally), I am overcome with how lucky I truly am – to come where I come from.

I have a house, that even when my parents move out of it, will always be my home.

Because every crack and crevice? I’ve explored them. And that house and the people in it? They built me.

(Disclaimer: “The House that Built Me” is a song, by Miranda Lambert).