The house you grew up in is like a first love. You never forget it, and it always seems bigger and more exciting than it really was. But we loved our little house. It was where I waited in my grandmother’s arms, there in that center door, as my father brought my baby sister home in 1947. It was the first time my mother had seen the new house.
The upstairs window on the left? We had a playroom there with waxed linoleum floors we’d skate over and cubbyholes with sliding doors that became our play houses and stuffed animal lairs. We each had a child’s roll-top desk. I would play office and post my writings on the wall with thumb tacks.
On the right, in the picture, the driveway had a strip of grass down the middle. It still does. It was quite irritating to cut.