The House That Built Me

My Dad built this home in 1990.

31 years ago.

We sold it a few years later for $91,000.

It just sold for so much more.

I remember every square inch.

The memories are sunshine-soaked.

And those that are not sparkle with snow.

Because it was Wisconsin.

The banister to the basement…..how often I turned around it up and down those steps.

The island, where I would come home, exhausted from school, avoiding the snobs on the bus with mullets, huge hair, and rimmed eyeliner.

Then I’d drop my oh-so-heavy backpack on the counter and do my homework while Mom fried hamburger.

She’d throw vegetables from the garden into the hamburger and that was supper.

(Often with homemade bread, too).

I was 8 when Dad built it. 10 or 11 or so when we moved. Are those years so magical that this, out of all homes, is my home?

The garage…which was always a fun place to play and segue outside.

I remember that banister, with the big dark spot on it. I remember Mom staining it and me helping or, probably, just looking on, and I remember how the wood took the stain and it turned black there.

And thinking it was weird.

But now it’s perfect.

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