My Childhood Home

Today’s the day! It’s your chance to share some of your favorite memories of your childhood home. Give me details: what comes flooding back when you think about it now?

My house was a white split level next door to the church where my dad was the minister. I remember the oak tree we climbed in our back yard, and the acorns we gathered from it to wing at our siblings. I remember using the tree to climb onto the roof of our house, and then being spotted on the roof by a neighbor driving by. He stopped the car and knocked on our front door to tell my mom what I’d been up to.

I remember the orange and gold diamond-patterned carpet in the kitchen, and how I played hopscotch on the diamonds. I remember my sister lying on that carpet tantruming at the ripe old age of 3 because she didn’t want to come inside for her nap.

I remember the storage closet under the basement stairs — it was the perfect place for a clubhouse, despite the ancient croquet set and the musty sleeping bags that took up part of the space.

I remember the sunny picture window in the living room where my dad hung a long shelf up high from four chains hooked into the ceiling, so that my mom could keep her plants safe from the many little ones in the house.

I remember sitting at that picture window in the living room in winter, watching the snow fall and the cars spin their wheels as they tried to drive up the hill on the street in front of our house. Always, always, my dad would go give them a push to get them going again.

I remember being fascinated by the tiny perfect hole in the window where a BB had been shot by a neighbor boy, and putting my tongue on the icy hole, and having my tongue freeze right to the glass. For a moment, before my panicked breath warmed the glass, I thought I was truly stuck.

Out that same window, I also remember watching my dad, thrilled over his brand-new snowblower, systematically clearing the driveways of half a dozen bemused neighbors, all with a black furry Russian-style hat on his head and a beatific smile on his face.

I remember bedtimes singing hymns with my mom as she nursed the latest baby. I remember morning devotions around the dining table with my dad, with the warmth of the basement wood stove filtering up to my feet through the vent in the floor.

Precious memories of home. I’m sure you have some too. Will you please share them with us all? Put your post up on your blog. Sign up below on Mr. Linkie. If you don’t have a blog, you can leave your story in comments. Then go to visit others who are sharing their own memories. It will be interesting to see what types of things are important enough to children to ‘stick’ with them their whole lives. I can’t wait to hear your stories!

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