We were so happy to get a house, “a real house, with a yard!” said my mother. I was 6 when we moved from the apartment on Johnson to The House On McMillan. The house sat squat in an industrial park with the railroad tracks in the back. “Over 100 years old”, she said. 3 bedrooms and 1 bath. Push button light switches and a pot bellied stove. I suppose the heating worked, I remember my mother lighting the pilot with a long match during a cold winter morning, but most nights we were warmed by the stove that crackled annoyingly as I tried to shiver myself back to sleep.
The childhood home where:
My uncle kicked crack while building a white picket fence and 2 1st model Honda cars, one red and one tan sat in the back. A squash garden that once in awhile grew a watermelon sat squat in the middle of very little grass. Railroad tracks that meant a short cut to school, if you had the nerve to climb under the train while it was on the tracks. Most times it was ok, and for years I never saw the trains move. I thought they just parked them and left them behind our house. So I’d sneak out the back and get to school much quicker. But when my brother started school it was a bit trickier, and one day…the train moved. While my brother was under it. I screamed and cried, MOVE and he went faster than I’ve ever seen him move. He was 6 too, so it was a sight to see.
Years later Daniel was thrilled at scaring me on some train tracks, would his delight in my fright be based on a sense of freedom to put his OWNSELF in harms way instead of me doing it for him?