A rental on West Park Street

When I was twelve, I lived in a rental house. Our plans to update the kitchen had turned briefly into a kitchen and bathroom renovation before morphing into a complete house remodel. Since our real home was stripped down to the studs, my family was forced to relocate for about a year.

It wasn’t terrible. It was weird, though, having to worry about not changing things. No customizing here —  like the ideal public bathroom, we would leave it cleaner than we found it.

My bedroom walls were red. Not bright, R: 255 G: 0 B: 0 red, more like a deep red wine, burgundy color. It was cool for the first week, but the dark walls made for a dark atmosphere. I don’t actually remember anything about the room, because I never spent any time in it. All the fun happened out of doors.

In the back-back yard — there were two, sort of — there was a huge grassy space with an enormous tree at the back fence. Up the fifty foot ladder, up the rungs built into the tree, and I could just reach the plastic green handles of the zip line. I flew. Past the tree branches, past the mini apple orchard, and straight at the shed, painted red with white accents to look like a barn. The house owners had kindly left a big piece of plyboard leaning there so I could slam my feet into it before I crashed into the shed.

One time, I forgot to prop the board back up before I jumped. Continue reading

Growing pains of a 20-something year old

I hate becoming an adult.

Childhood is a warm, fuzzy place where it’s never your fault, where there is always an excuse for your mistakes–even if the excuse is that you’re young.

Adulthood means responsibility. Maybe on occasion there is a reason, but there is never an excuse. Adulthood means being self-motivated, with no parents or teachers holding your hand or pushing you along. Adulthood means making choices that are yours and yours alone, and accepting their consequences.

In theory, I have no problem with being an adult. It’s the transition that kills me.

Continue reading