Memoir Mondays Coming to you from Two Writing Teachers
Here’s my first home, 13 Catherine St, the end of the block.
My parents still live here; as a couple they have never lived anywhere else and never will.
I left at the end of college and except for a few transitional returns I moved away, but surprise, surprise, not too far away.
When I got my first teaching job in my hometown, I got my first apartment, just a few blocks away from my homestead. Just a few blocks could have been in another town, or even another city. My parents kept their distance and never surprised me with spontaneous visits. Pretty amazing and wonderful!
Of course our house didn’t look like this when I called it home. It’s the same house sure, but the huge oak big tree shielding me away from the world was chopped down and replaced with something more tailored, a dwarf. In fact, as I look at the photo, I realize that the new look gives our house a really neat and orderly image.
That’s not the way I remember it. Our lawn used to be filled with weeds, mowed when my dad had the energy at the end of an exhausting week. the house was white stucco and the landscaping was hodgepodge, without the input of a landscaping computer. Our flowerbeds were filled with irises, my mom’s favorite. I wonder what happened to them?
The toned siding and coordinated shutters are nice but the white stucco was as rougher look. Maybe as a kid I would have preferred this new look(our next door neighbor, Jerry, would have) but as an adult, I’ve moved to appreciate the more natural feel.
I don’t call 13 Catherine St. my home anymore. Now the couple who began it all are on their own with my brother Jeff looking in often from his vantage point just one block over on Helen Street, where my best friend Steven lived.
It’s always feels good to reconnect with my deep roots, but here at the Hudson is where I feel a balance of body and mind. I look out the window and feel grateful, especially on a Monday morning with the sun shining in early September.