So yesterday’s post and the comments got me thinking about my own history. First up, here is a pic of my childhood bungalow on Superior Street in Sault Ste. Siberia. This is a pretty recent pic (March 2013 I think). It was a lot shabbier when I lived there. (Yes, really, I know that doesn’t seem possible.)

That whole front addition thingy was not there until after my parents moved out (and into my late grandparents’ house). I don’t know which subsequent owner added it or even who those owners were. I do know that The Commander was MAAAADDDD! that the first owners after her *limbed* the spruce tree. It’s that tree to the left in the pic. When we lived there it had beautiful branches sweeping the ground.

That window to the left of the entrance was MY BEDROOM beginning when I was in about first grade. In my early memories, that room was, well, I dunno what, a sewing room maybe. It had garishly flowery wallpaper in it. I fergit what year that house was built, 40s maybe? I could look it up but I am done done done looking stuff up for today. I loved the wallpaper and I was skeptical when she removed it and *painted* the walls all one color. I may have loved the flowery stuff but The Commander was bona-fide mid-century modern.

She had a few tricks up her sleeve though and she installed a bed with a SILVER colored padded headboard. I was entranced. Hollywood in a shabby little yooperland bungalow.

So here I am being nice to my [late] little brother for once, allowing him into my room to play with our Easter rabbits. Missing him. I remember the venetian blinds. I remember the bed but not those particular linens. The Comm made the lacy curtains. I remember that toy STOVE! I remember the growing collection of Golden Book Encyclopedias that we got one at a time at the grocery store. I READ those. At least some of them. I think The Comm may have made the bookshelf and I think it’s at the moomincabin now.

Another view is me intently doing some kind of art or craft prodject at the Yellow Table at the foot of my bed. There’s my clothing rack over there. No closets in that house. Well I think there was one upstairs in the “master bedroom”.

My family moved to my grandparents’ “retirement” house between my freshman and sophomore years in college. It wasn’t traumatic for me. I actually think I was in favor of the idea. I had a designated bedroom there and at least at first I think my bed there had my childhood silver headboard. But it was never my room. It was really The Comm’s sewing room and whatever else she wanted. That was okay with me. Eventually she changed out the bed for trundles and we and her grandchildren and sometimes her nieces would sleep there and those beds are now here at the Landfill, where we are not having visitors because COVID. Sigh.

I had a complicated relationship with that house because my childhood piano teacher lived there and taught lessons there. Her piano was in the living room (like ours was) and when I was a bit early, I waited in what eventually became my brother’s bedroom for my lesson. That’s not to say I don’t miss that house. We had so much fun there.

Almost every sentence I wrote today took me off into a multitude of stories associated with all of this. Some can be told on the internet, others not so much.

Love you all, KW 🧡🧡🧡

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 18th, 2020 at 7:15 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.