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