When you start to make something in the kitchen you have a dish in mind. Then you add everything together. In a small amount of time, the item is ready to be consumed-and admired. For this memoir sojourn, we commence with the end first. The completed dish, shall we say, before the cooking.
The house was everything. Muscular with softer shingle flaps slightly upturned from weathering and age. Eyelid dormers above perkier windows. Facing north, south, east, west. Proudly guarding its corner at Everit Street and East Rock Road, my grandmother's house at '239' held us close for decades. Without any men living there, we had to be protected by someone or something. Our house did exactly that. Hot when it was below freezing, cool in summer, sturdy when lightning struck everything around it. A solid safety net and very best friend when my sister and I came home after school to do our homework and play.
My grandfather and grandmother moved into 239 Everit Street in 1910. They were newlyweds.
No comments:
Post a Comment