Rough draft of a memoir writing exercise I did last night. This is by far not a final draft.
The House With Two Chimneys
Most of my memories of W. 2nd street are vague, only small snippets of my chaotic childhood. For all of the tragic memories life created on that cal-de-sac there are twice as many happy ones, if not more.
It’s where I made my first lifelong friends, where I learned to sled, read, ride a bike, eat crab apples and where I got ran over by a car while roller blading. It’s also where I spent Christmases with my parents, where I raced my brother to the top of the big pole in our garage and where I carved “I love Josh” in the grove of white barked Aspen trees between his house and mine. It’s where we grew our garden and processed the deer my dad brought home from his hunting trips. I can still smell the fresh carcass hanging macabrely from our garage ceiling and crying for Bambi’s lost mother.
Mostly though, I remember the house itself and the feeling of pure safety I felt inside it. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that safe since. Perhaps that is because it was my only true home - the only home before everything shifted.
Our house was the last on the left side of the cal-de-sac. It was painted a deep slate blue and the only house with two chimneys. I was so proud of those chimneys! Even the kids at school knew my house by it’s silhouette in the sky.
It had a two car garage where my dad kept his tools in a big red toolbox Cody and I were never allowed to touch. Our front yard was bordered by a simple wooden fence made from a couple support poles and two wooden planks. The ground was just slanted enough that we could sled in our own front yard, but you had to watch out for that fence! It was crucial to time it just right, duck and slide under the bottom pole, or risk knocking your head clean off! Once clear of the fence, it was smooth sailing into the quiet street. I always tried to spin my saucer once I made it past the fence. Not only was it fun - it looked cool as hell!
In our yard there were a few pine trees, another knarly one with deep purple leaves along the fence and in the center a small, grey barked tree with bright red leaves that tasted fresh, clean, like freedom. Underneath the tree grew yellow and purple pansies - they tasted pretty good too! Cody and I ate everything as kids. Ask the poison control operators!
Five or six three foot square concrete blocks created the steps to our front stoop and outlined a big, brick flower bed. I grew a fruitful cantaloupe patch there one year, despite my dad’s insistence that cantaloupes wouldn’t grow in Colorado.
Next to the flower bed, on the right of the steps, was a big bush, my mother’s tulips and our window well. I was always intrigued by the window well because the neighborhood kids often found salamanders living in theirs. I was never lucky enough to find any creatures in mine - only an unripe cantaloupe some butthead kid picked from my patched and tossed inside. Jerk.
Once you entered the front door you were actually on the second floor of the house. To the left was the closet my dad hid the Christmas presents in, complete with a nail in the top to keep us kids out. Beyond that, to the left, were the stairs to the first floor and directly in front of the entrance to the house were the stairs leading up into the third floor. Finally, to the right of the front entrance was the living room, home to the first fireplace and our 50 gallon aquarium and two albino Oscars.
If you chose to take the stairs down to the first floor, you’d find yourself in a large den that housed the second fireplace. For some reason, I was always afraid in that room. I still get the creeps thinking about it and occasionally have bad dreams centered around it. Directly to the left of the stairs was a hallway that lead to the garage entrance, a bathroom I once accidentally locked myself inside and finally to the room where I was home schooled.
Inside was my dad’s big wooden desk with his then super fancy, now gigantic and obsolete computer we were forbidden to ever touch, like his toolbox. Me and Cody’s smaller wooden desks were beside it, where I learned to read. I found transport to worlds completely opposite of my own at that desk. I could travel from there, instantly! I also found my first taste of success and of pride in that little wooden chair. On the adjoining wall was my reading chart where for every book I read I got a red star. There were so many we started sticking them to the wall itself.
Back in the den was a door leading to our back yard and one to the laundry room where our cleaning lady once found one of my dad’s porno magazines and told me that he was a pervert.
On the opposite side of the staircase from the hallway laid the steps to our basement wherein my dad made fishing lures for his shop called “Jonah - It’s a Whale of a Deal!” Basements are always scary when you’re seven. Mine had a pile of scuba gear that resembled human remains and a giant painting of Bozo the Clown directly at the base of the stairs that the light hit perfectly to scare the living daylights out of you.
Now, if you decided to go up the stairs from the front door you’d find yourself in our dining room with big french doors that opened onto our back deck. I first learned to whistle on that deck and caught and released thousands of wayward moths who’d trapped themselves inside the french doors.
To the right of the dining room was our kitchen. It wasn’t very big - both the floors in the kitchen and dining room, even the stairs, were made from cold, hard, orange ceramic tile. The kitchen counters were also ceramic with various strange designs in white, deep blue and orange.
Both the kitchen and dining room were open, lined with wooden railing allowing a direct view down into the entire second floor. Cody once got his head stuck in the railing and we had to coat his head in butter and eventually remove one railing post to get him out. He thought it was hilarious. Dad, not so much.
Turn to the left of the stairway to see the hallway lined with bright blue carpet leading to the bedrooms. The bathroom Cody and I shared with the same crazy tiles as the kitchen was the first door on the right. We took our baths and created many memories in that bathroom, including one of a buttnaked, wet spanking because we were fighting in a bathtub filled to the absolute brim, sloshing water all over the floor. Ha!
Both Cody and my bedrooms were on the left side of the hallway, his first then mine. All the bedrooms had the same blue carpet. Momma hated that damned carpet. I don’t remember much about Cody’s room up until we eventually started sharing it shortly before we moved out of the house. I do know that both rooms had big windows, directly in the center, overlooking the roof and out onto the cal-de-sac. My room had white wicker furniture - a toybox, headboard and nightstand. I also had white shelves built into the wall for my books and various nicknacks.
Directly across the hall from my room was my parent’s master bedroom. The most vivid of all in my memory. Their big bed with the pink and blue flowery bedspread, so soft, where Momma and I watched the Beauty and the Beast soap opera and “The Wonder Years” on their small 24” television resting on top their chest of drawers. The bigger dresser with the giant mirror was on Momma’s side of the bed, the right. Dad’d side had a nightstand where he kept his teeth and his books. On that same side was the closet, home to his big old cowboy boots and bolo ties. I spent the eighth year of my life sleeping at the foot of their bed, on the floor, every night because I had vivid nightmares of losing Dad after Momma died.
Inside their bathroom was first a sink and mirror where I distinctly remember my dad trimming his nose hair and joking that one day I’d have a big honker just like his. Talk about scary!
Next came the toilet and their shower. I can still smell the wet clean scent of my mother there. My crispest memory of her is showering with her. I know it sounds odd to remember my mother naked, but I think I felt the most safe and loved inside that shower. I felt close to her there. The memory is tender, warm and comforting.
This was the house my mother suffered in (hell, we all did), the house where television interviews and documentaries were filmed, but mostly this was the house we were all in together. Where we were all a family - a real family - a father, mother, two kids and their pets.
The last time I saw the house I was 12 years old. New people called it their home. They’d painted it grey and parked their strange cars in its driveway. I couldn’t even bear to look at it for fear of tainting the memory for me. It wasn’t the same and it was too much to handle. I often wonder if its new family knows about the memories a small girl made there or of the losses she experienced. I hope it’s as much a home to them as it was to her.
End.
