1021 Trenton Drive
Pensacola, FL 32505
(904)455-4725 / our old phone no.
While running errands today, I decided to drive through my old neighborhood and by my childhood home. It was depressing. I almost didn't recognize the streets let alone the houses on it. Instinct and old memories drove me to my old home. Many were tattered from Ivan (some apparently leveled from it); others were in general ill-repair. The streets themselves felt cluttered with overgrown bushes and carports piled with junk (old couches, TVs, etc.). Strange as it may seem I felt clastrophobic winding my way through the once familiar streets.
And then I pulled up to our old home. I feel certain it hasn't been painted since 1997. The colors are exactly the same as whe my dad gave it it's last coat and it looks as if it has been neglected ever since. You can barely see it but the roof is peeled up and needs replacing (obviously a blow from Ivan).
Stroll with me while I give you a quick tour...
- To the left lived the Kings to the right Mrs. Mulétte (I can't recall the spelling but it was pronounced mo-let).
- The far left window was our living room. Mom was always concerned someone would break her "picture" window.
- The center porch still has the iron support that helped us boys climb on the roof when a frisbee or other item got stuck.
- The right front window was my parent's bedroom
- On the right side the center small window is the home of our yellow tiled bathroom. It was the only one in the house with two parents and three boys. The tile itself brought on many o chorus of "We all live in a yellow bathroom" sung to the tune of a popular beetles work.
- Just behind that is the window of the room my brother Scott and I shared (by force-jk) for the first few years of our life (until Doug went to college).
It was nice to see the place, but I probably wont go back for a long while. The place looked lonely, almost like it missed the days the McCown's filled it's rooms with laughing, crying, boo-boos, serious talks, and the occassional alone time. I miss the house a little, but I've been blessed by being able to look to a bright future and not dwell on and long for days gone by.
6 comments:
Nice story-sharing, Chuck.
It looked pretty rough, man. I don't have stories of moving much except from Georgia to here.
I think I'd like to go see our little place up in Washington in a few years and see if the deck I built is still in good shape, the Confederate jasmine is grown up, the dogwoods still bloom beautiful pink, etc.
We have many, happy memories of that place.
I can see how it could be a little depressing.
Good post Chuck.
It could be having a mother in real estate that has given me this perspective but I don’t that alone is the reason but I love home stories. Homes stories for sure but also house stories more specifically.
I have memories of all the houses I’ve lived in from the tree house in the backyard of out place in North Carolina when I was really small to our place at 666 Robertsville Rd where Isaac tells us he was born. Hiding Penthouse magazines in the ceiling panels of Graceland, the “milk tree” in our front yard at our first place in Hawaii, the flood on Royce Circle seeing our landlord drive by and refusing to stop or acknowledge our existence, the neighbors 6ft wall I fell off of telling my mother I couldn’t feel my legs at our second place in HI, the house my folks told my brother and I they were getting a divorce in, the place where my step father began his chemo treatment in-between my time at FU.
I always like the adage of “if these walls could talk”
Yes, I could have gone on about the trees in the backyard that were on many days my friends. I spent so much time in them that one day a squirrel sat accross from me for a couple minutes just to see what this strange creature was doing lounging around in the tree.
I could also tell you about the hundreds of miles I put on my bike going down trails around the area. Trails I would walk down today for fear of walking up on a drug exchange or gang meeting. It used to be my hood, but I'm affraid few remain that could vouch for me as a "mayfair" boy (the infamous name of the subdivision).
Ah the memories...
I've lived in so many different houses over the years I couldn't really claim one as "home." Honestly, most of them have blurred and blended into each other as well, so I can't even give much of a mullins type run down either.
It always kept things interesting, but sometimes I wish I had a nice house that I could go back to.
As far as growing up is concerned, I only remember being in one location, but the house changed all the itme.
When I was very small, we lived in a single-wide trailer. Then, Dad built on th living room. A few year later, he built their bedroom and bathroom. About the time I was 11 or 12, they sold the trailer and moved it out, leaving two, separate rooms with nothing in between.
The next year was building the rest of the house around these 2 rooms.
It was almost like an Amish barn raising. My uncles, cousins, Dad's friends, my brother, and me all worked on laying the foundations, building, roofing, sheetrock, etc.
Once it was "done" we moved in.
Over the last few years, it has continued to be a work in progress.
In fact, Dad just built on another room to make a nice study off the guest bedroom. I don't think he'll ever call his masterpeice a finished work!
i need to do a blog like this as well. Well done chuck. We had miles of woods behind the house i grew up in. Me and my cousin would ride our bikes up and down the busy streets of east ridge TN. Our parents had no fear of death or kidnapping... ah the good ole days.
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