My Old House

Day 2

Moving from one place to another, and one house to another, is a big task.  Write about one of your most memorable house moves.

Our new house had a porch, a huge front yard, lots of trees, a smaller back yard, and a field that stretched out behind the house.  There was a horse in the field; she was my grandpa’s, but we never figured out whether her name was Appy or Happy.  I always called her Appy because she was an Appaloosa.  Happy seemed a silly name for a horse; Appy was at least logical.

The carpet was blue-gray.  It covered the biggest downstairs room, the hallway and all up the stairs and in the bedrooms.  The kitchen, for whatever reason, was pink, and so was what would become my bedroom.  My sister’s room was yellow.  All the other rooms were white, or aged white.  There was a scary closet at the back of the upstairs “hallway” (all six feet of it) that I was always afraid of walking past at night.  In the downstairs hallway, which was a bit longer,  was a small window, about eye-level, that I was also afraid of walking past at night.  I always thought I’d someday see scary eyes peering at me through it.

The big room had a fireplace.  It had a big front window that we covered with curtains from Goodwill and set our army-green couch under–also from Goodwill.  It was an old house–even my 7-year-old eyes could see the cracks that the spiders came through, and wished every day that they weren’t there.  I was terrified of spiders.

An older me would call it drafty.  When the wind howled outside, it felt fragile.  I was always afraid a tornado was going to tear it apart, even though tornados were only things we heard about in movies and occasionally from our relatives in the mid-west.  We had a dust-devil once, long after rationality had curbed (but never cured) my fears–concrete enough to reawaken them for a time.

We had a fireplace.  At 7, I didn’t have the experience to appreciate it, but it became a part of me as I grew.  Always close enough to seem brave, but never brave enough to get closer.  I loved the warmth.  Sheets of vinyl separated the floors.  70 degrees downstairs (in the waking hours), 50 degrees up.  Piles of heavy quilts immobilized us, but kept us warm.  It took a lot to get her to turn on the electric heat.

That’s enough for tonight.


Leave a comment

Filed under Nonfiction

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s