Blog Post 4/2

I’m actually not here writing this. I wrote this on 3/28 and scheduled it. The day this posts is the day I fly back to Georgia from Texas. Hopefully, my trip has gone well.

I was born in Lakeland, Florida in 1977. That’s a town in Polk County about 50 miles from Orlando. We lived there until I was three, and then we moved to Mound, Minnesota because my father had a job opportunity. I loved the house we had there and wish I had pictures. The address is 1543 Bluebird Lane, but it’s not for sale and I can only see the street view. It’s on the top of a hill at the end of the street, and it sits on Lake Minnetonka. There were birch trees in the backyard before the hill dropped off to the water. I spent every summer in that water. In the winter, we ice skated on it.

The house was gray wood with four half-stories. The basement took up half the floor plan, the ground floor was on the other half, consisting of the garage, utility room, one bathroom, and one bedroom. The tub in that bathroom was bigger than a hot tub. There was no way to fill it with hot water before the tank ran out. I was in that tub as often as my mother would allow, practically swimming in it with my friends. Sometimes I think I imagined it, if not for my family remembering it too.

The third floor was over the basement, consisting of the deck to the front door, the kitchen, dining room, and living room. There was a back deck that sat over the exit from the basement. Many winters were spent jumping off the balcony into snow banks. The fourth floor held my bedroom, a bathroom, and my parents’ bed/bath combo. Their bedroom had louvered doors that opened to a tiny balcony overlooking the living room below.

The basement was my favorite place to be (besides that tub, lol). I spent many hours watching The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Oklahoma, and who knows what else. My dad’s home office was tucked into the corner of the basement and it was a way to be near him. When I was about four, I was spinning in my nightgown to the theme song to Dallas and fell, busting my chin open on the edge of the fireplace hearth. Dad held me in his lap and squeezed the spot closed while Mom held something to it to stop the bleeding. She swears I should have had stitches but he insisted I would be fine. I still have the scar and the memory.

I guess the point is that the house held all of my happiest memories. Even though some things were painful and that’s the last place we all lived together as a family, I can recall every aspect of that house. We moved back to Florida the year I was nine, while my dad stayed in Minnesota with his new family before moving to Texas a few years later. I have a crappy memory on a good day, but addresses stick with me along with homes, apparently. These are the things I try to cling to; the better memories.

Thanks for listening to me ramble.