I remember
Our first family home.
I still know the address.
We lived on Magnolia Street.
Two blocks from my Elementary School.
I walked to school.
I pictured that neighborhood as I read “Ramona Quimby, Age 8″ and her house was my house, only hers had stairs I think.
There was a huge church that occupied the block between my house and my school.
The church parking lot is where I learned to ride my bike without training wheels.
On the other side of the church parking lot, was my best friend.
We met the first day of kindergarten.
I decided it was a good idea to go to her house after school, without asking permission first or anything.
My mom thought that was a terrible idea.
We used to fly kites in that parking lot.
We rode our bikes and skated on our skates there.
I wasn’t allowed to go beyond the two-block radius by myself.
We lived about three or four blocks from Sycamore Street.
My dad promised me he would take me for a ride down Sycamore Street.
I rode on the back of his bicycle, in one of those bike seats.
I smiled and waved to the people raking their lawns and sweeping their sidewalks.
I don’t know why, but I always loved Sycamore Street.
I was convinced that El Caminos were really called Pontiacs, because one time a boy in my neighborhood told me so.
Even my dad couldn’t convince me otherwise; I stuck to my opinion and continued calling them Pontiacs - much to his irritation.
We lived a few blocks from the community pool.
I hated the kiddie pool out front.
It always seemed slimy and too green and gross.
The big pool had two diving boards, one regular and one high dive.
I jumped off the regular diving board once, on my own.
I nearly drowned.
The lifeguard was too busy rubbing lotion on herself/flirting with boys.
Someone else jumped in and helped me out.
I sometimes wonder if that old house is still there, with the concrete blocks still underneath to keep it off the ground. I guess there wasn’t really a foundation. All of the houses were like that. Sometimes you could hear raccoons or other varmits under the house, scratching under the tub. The last time anyone in my family saw it, it was broken down, and sinking at the bottom.
I always imagine the same type of family lives there. Like we were when we lived there. A young couple, with young children, with money and domestic problems. The families move in there, with the promise of a bright future. They leave broken.
Hope springs there, and is quickly drained away.
