Memories of a Childhood Home

It’s odd to think of my childhood house and the memories I have associated with it and thing that my Wee One will have memories, too, about the place we live in just the next few years. Every day with her is so beautiful, fun and playful. I will like seeing what she discovers about our home.

The house I lived in as a child had stained glass windows.  I remember that most vividly. I love stained glass, and it was so beautiful in such a mundane little place.

It was a small red brick house with an attic and dank unfinished basement leading to the garage under my bedroom.  My main bedroom window was huge and west-facing, so I had glorious late day sunlight. We put plastic up on the windows every window, and I remember putting my hand and cheek up to the plastic, feeling the cold.

On the adjacent wall was a smaller window, but way up near the top of the ceiling. I would lay in bed and stare out that small window at the tree beyond or rooftop of the house next to me, watching squirrels or birds.

We had hardwood floors and a tiny kitchen that had a door on the side that led to steps to a sidewalk between our house and our neighbor’s.  I would park my bike in the small grassy section on our side of the walk. It fit just right.

Our front yard had a small incline in the front that was perfect for laying trash bags on and then running water from the hose on it, making my own water slide.

I still remember the address, and often use those four numbers in my passwords.

We moved when I was 14. I feel like I know that house like I know my own skin, and I hope Wee One has the same experience.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Our House.”

Okay, your turn.

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