Flippy - I Rant, You Read
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Home Sweet Gone
It was bound to happen - the ol’ homestead finally sold. It’s like I lost a friend. A place where I learned how to ride a bike. Where I learned to play wiffle ball and not cry too hard when David hit a line drive back into my eye. Where I named our German Shepherd’s last runty puppy, Goopy...because he was. Where I was chased by tiny shepherd puppies with sharp nippy teeth and scratchy claws. Where I had all my important birthday parties. Where my brother broke into the bathroom when he shouldn’t have, so I threw a book at him...hard. Where we played baseball and football in the streets with the neighbor boys. Where we played basketball in our driveway, until our hands were too numb to play anymore. Where our stupid olive tree dropped purple olives on our basketball court, making a huge mess. Where I learned how to skateboard, and how I shouldn’t skateboard barefoot. Where I learned how to play catch, how to pitch, how to put my uniform on so it looked cool. It’s where I curled up with Harriet the Spy & Encyclopedia Brown on rainy days. Where I baked cookies with my mom when my brothers were off at Indian Guides or baseball practice. Where we ordered pizza and watched The Six Million Dollar Man on Sundays. Where we had dinner together every single night, with all six of us there, after my dad got off work at 4:42pm every day. I knew the time because his watch went off at that time for years after he retired. Where my big brothers made their stop-action go-kart/melting army men/peace sign movie. Where we picked lemons, peaches, loquats and pineapple guavas. Where we played with the lizards that stopped by our back yard for a visit. Where we played ping-pong, with me rarely winning, because I was only the little sister. Where Rufus, Starr, Diablo and my hamster, Chi-Chi lived. Where we were a family. A happy family, for as many years as the house was ours. It’s where Santa came to visit, even though we’re Jewish...and no one can tell me that boot print on the fireplace wasn’t his. I hope the next owners appreciate the place.
I realize how lucky I am to even be able to write this entry. That house is the only house I ever lived in as a child. It was purchased four years before I was born, and now I’m 40. That phone number is the only number that’s been a constant number in my life. And for the last time, it’s Eatough, E-A-T-O-U-G-H Avenue, not Place. We pronounce it Eee-taw, not Eeetuff, not Utah.
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