Remembrances of Homes
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Que
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I was looking up a favorite home from my childhood. Spent fourth grade here. It had been on the market a long time, Needed paint. It looks smaller than it is because the 14' ceilings throw off the scale. No modern insulation. Ivy gnarled, threatening to swallow it whole. The neighborhood kids assumed it was haunted.
Really expensive to heat during the '74 Energy Crisis, so the thermostat was at 62 and we wore sweaters inside. Mostly I dove under the covers and read a couple of books a day.
The first time I smelled weed was after my dad hired a microbus of hippies to paint the place. They showed up at church asking after odd jobs. Dad bought them brushes, LOOOONG ladders, rollers and other supplies. They got to keep their painting equipment and crashed in the carriage house for the couple of months it took them to paint the place. Looks like it could use some paint again 40 years later. It walls then a golden tudor yelllow. The beams for the house is the actual construction. Real hand-hewn beams. You can see the marks from the broad axe. The neighbor hood had once been home to ship captains. The two spinster ladies next door used to watch us kids play and bring us peanut-butter cookies. They had a widows walk atop their house from which I think they could see the ocean. Sounds glamorous, but a rather smelly fish-cannery was on the wharf 3-4 blocks away.
Really expensive to heat during the '74 Energy Crisis, so the thermostat was at 62 and we wore sweaters inside. Mostly I dove under the covers and read a couple of books a day.
The first time I smelled weed was after my dad hired a microbus of hippies to paint the place. They showed up at church asking after odd jobs. Dad bought them brushes, LOOOONG ladders, rollers and other supplies. They got to keep their painting equipment and crashed in the carriage house for the couple of months it took them to paint the place. Looks like it could use some paint again 40 years later. It walls then a golden tudor yelllow. The beams for the house is the actual construction. Real hand-hewn beams. You can see the marks from the broad axe. The neighbor hood had once been home to ship captains. The two spinster ladies next door used to watch us kids play and bring us peanut-butter cookies. They had a widows walk atop their house from which I think they could see the ocean. Sounds glamorous, but a rather smelly fish-cannery was on the wharf 3-4 blocks away.
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Que
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All of them? Sad.
You must've had some great hiding places? This house had lots of great ones. I didn't need any at the time. I have always had hiding places since.
In hindsight, it is interesting that a couple of my favorite books, "My Side of The Mountain" and "From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil M. Frankweiler" both involved kids running away from home and living independently in very creative ways. Both I read and enjoyed during times that I had a mostly happy childhood. It was only later that things seemed to take a turn. I always had supplies stashed and an idea of where I could hide, how I could survive.
When I finally left home, I walked 5 miles to where I had a 1968 Firebird convertible stashed that my parents did not know that I owned.
http://bringatrailer.com/wp-content/plugins/PostviaEmail/images/image_307_resize.jpg
Mine was a lot more beat-up and rusty than this one, but it had nicer factory wheels.
4est_4est_Gump
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Our home, grandpa's home, great uncle's home, great grandpa's home...
... all on the same plot of ground.
... all on the same plot of ground.
Not Normal
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My folks still live in the house I grew up in. I see it a few time a year. I'd never live there again. My ex-wife still lives in the house we bought, so I see it sometimes too. It was a good place, with a lot of charm, but she doesn't take great care of it.
I love the house Bluey and I have now. The layout is nice, we chose great colors, and it feels good here.
I love the house Bluey and I have now. The layout is nice, we chose great colors, and it feels good here.
Que
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I envy continuity. I moved a lot as a child so now I refuse to move when commons sense says I should. I have attachments with all the houses I lived in. Someday I will visit them all. Be a long road trip.
Most of the homes in that neighborhood had been converted to multi-family, boarding houses or nursing homes
Que
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The two windows in the upper right of the upper right picture were the maid's rooms in the addition. When we moved in it became the "boys rooms." we had a bathroom with a clawfoot tub and our own, narrow staircase down to the kitchen. Mom could look out her bathroom window from the original part of the house and see if my light was on.
These days a mother could text, "GO TO SLEEP!"
ToysAreUs
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When I was in High School, a neighbor hired me during the summer breaks to help him remodel his funky 1900s fire-brick house. We gutted the interior and found the walls completely stuffed with newspapers from the same time period, all in perfect condition. We also found turn-of-the-century advertizing signs and some WW1 recruitment materials.
He sold the works to collectors and the proceeds went a long way paying for the remodel. Lucky find!
He sold the works to collectors and the proceeds went a long way paying for the remodel. Lucky find!
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Aw, Jelly! And yet they speak so warmly of you.
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Hypoxia
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I miss a few places. A big California Territorial on a hilltop above the Russian River; an old farmhouse on the Mendocino coast; casitas in Santa Fe, New Mexico and San Cristobal de Las Casas, Chiapas, southernmost Mexico. I miss none of the suburban L.A. dreck I "grew up" in. I'll have a fond remembrance of our current mountain-village modular when we move away in a couple years, but I'll be glad to be gone.
This thread prompted me to play a memory game: write down all my previous addresses. Impossible, of course -- I lived on the road for a few years and can't account for all the layovers. And what does "lived there" mean? How long -- one month? More? Less? I can remember most of the places that received mail. Hmmm, just thought of some more. [/me scribbles notes]
This thread prompted me to play a memory game: write down all my previous addresses. Impossible, of course -- I lived on the road for a few years and can't account for all the layovers. And what does "lived there" mean? How long -- one month? More? Less? I can remember most of the places that received mail. Hmmm, just thought of some more. [/me scribbles notes]
Que
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I "lived" in a hovel of a motel for a week. I only went there because a girl was staying there. I was there for the day, spent a week. It was so bad that I went to the dollar store and bought new sheets. Somehow, the whole thing including helping the evicted maintenance guy move and a premise call to the room by law enforcement made the place "mine" for that week. I don't think it is the duration, but the intensity of "living" someplace.
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Hypoxia
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If intensity is the benchmark, I can throw in places in Panajachel and Antigua, Guatemala; Taxco, Guerrero and Xalapa, Veracruz, Mexico; Cooper Square, NYC; and the Sellwood, Portland OR. And I can't forget the historic adobe in Bisbee AZ we had for a decade. Too bad we couldn't keep it.
My most intense and brief? Probably a Tenderloin room in San Francisco, with lots of drug-and-booze-fueled sexual tension, potential murders, etc. Hey, that could be another thread here: what are the WORST places you've lived?
Que
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That is hard to define. Take your Tenderloin example or mine of the Silverbell. Neither are the sort of places you would invite friends or family to, but as a base of operation it makes you part of the events as they unfold. Without a room to peek out of, you would be merely a spectator to that domestic three doors down.
If I could simply blend into the woodwork anywhere right now, I would pick the Hotel Congress in Tucson.
The first home of my own that I bought was in a student infested neighborhood with a few residents still there from the mid 60's. I played house and took care of the lawn like it was my only job. My little idyllic yard contrasting to the hovels made me oddly eccentric.
When I needed to get my future fiancée into someplace safe and hard to find. I selected 3 apartment complexes for her to choose from. She picked the worst of them. All were utilities-included cops-every-weekend sort of places but good for anonymity. To keep her from making the dangerous journey to the laundryroom, I cut into the plumbing under the sink in the bathroom and installed a stackable. It was God-awful and clearly forsaken by Him. The boy as we called him, was enthralled with the place. He learned to walk stairs there as a toddler. He called the place 'The Castle."
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