The house on a hill

 

It's been months since Martha asked if I had a picture of my mother's kitchen.  Naturally, that sent me scrambling -- to no avail.

One of the things I love most about this day and age is how most people -- 8 or 80 -- make it a habit to capture their surroundings.

My father loved cameras, but the photographs he took were usually planned.  Posed.  I don't think it ever occurred to him to spend good money on images of our home; the 1,034 sq. feet that served as a backdrop to my adolescence.  

More than 50 years later, however, I can close my eyes and it's all there.  A mangle iron that sat under our dining room window ..... the tiny coat closet under the stairs where we watched a caterpillar weave itself a silky cocoon.   My bedroom, with this...

and that ...

I loved the dresser's reversible accent panels!

Mostly, I loved peeking out my window to spy on the firemen across the street doing their calisthenics. (*smile*)

Imagine my surprise yesterday when, on a lark, I typed in my old address -- and found not one, but 4 matches.

These (realtor) images were taken prior to its last sale, but I felt such a rush of emotions!

Remembering the phone that hung between the hutch and coat closet.  The spot where I ignored my mother's protests and fell off the back of a chair.  (and still have the scar to prove it.)

100% sure those are the original sink and bottom cabinets.  Casement windows, too.   Much to my mother's dismay, I used to use that left hand drawer pull as a bottle opener.  ( And yep, inflicted a series of dents.  Maybe not the original after all. )

My bedroom, its walls looking like the same pale yellow I favored.  Crisp cafe' curtains my mother sewed.  

Betcha anything, that's the same tree -- only now, it's branches obscure the firehouse.

Wish I had a dime for every time I tried walking the length of that fence top.  It's a wonder I didn't break my neck!

 

I shouldn't have been surprised ... but I was so disappointed to see what's become of the exterior.  Built in 1950, our home wasn't much to look like, but my parents took an enormous amount of pride maintaining the yard.  Seeing the overgrowth and junked automobiles, they'd have been heartbroken.

Yes, Mr. Wolfe.  You can go home again.

But in a way, I wish I hadn't.

In all honesty, "the house that built me" -- the home I still see in my dreams -- lies not in New Mexico, but in West Texas.  I used to fantasize about winning the Lottery and offering the owner whatever he wanted to sell.

I've even considered writing a letter to the current residents, sharing photos of how it looked new -- orange shag rug and avocado appliances; wallpaper, too.
... asking the current residents if they'd please share some current photos.

What's the worse they can say?

Dang. I'm such a coward!

Have you ever had occasion to go back to a former residence?  Would you?

Thanks for indulging my sentimental journey.

Please stay safe!

Hugs,

Myra