The House That Grew Me

Memoir writers and novelists have several things in common. Each writer pays careful attention to character, plot, and place. All of which are crucial in composing a tale that is captivating and unforgettable. I’m immersed in crafting chapters of my next memoir, so I’ve been ruminating about the power of place. And as a memoirist, I’m curious about how place informs, molds, and determines a character’s identity, habits, and preferences.

In the yellow-brick Dutch Colonial that grew me from a shy, creative young girl into a serious, over-achieving teen, I shared a small, second-floor bedroom with my twin sister. My mother decked out our matching canopy beds in frilly, white eyelet. Everywhere the eye traveled–from the canopies’ corner knobs to the bed ruffle dusting the hot pink shag carpet–the same starched white cotton fabric appeared. The room my mother created for my twin and me was cozy, comfortable, and cute–a real refuge. I loved it. Perhaps that is why to this day, I prefer bedrooms decorated with heavy swaths of white.

Even though I wouldn’t have had it any other way, cohabitating with my twin sister was not a matter of choice. In my family, there were six kids charging through childhood in tight quarters, so we bunked up in creative ways. My two younger sisters, who were more than four years apart, shared one of the other second-floor bedrooms. My parents had the third one at the end of the hall. A first-floor den was converted into a bunk room for my two younger brothers. As noisy as our household often was, there was something comforting about having so many dear ones under one roof. Except for the single year that followed my college graduation, I have never lived alone in an apartment or house. And so, as an empty-nester and recent widow, it’s both unfamiliar and unsettling to be the only set of footsteps in the house.

In the modest home in which I grew up, the room where I slept was not my only favorite landing spot. When I craved “alone time,” I crept down the steep front staircase to the first floor and made a left turn into the front room. In that formal space I could almost hear my eyelashes flutter. There, I mused about all that was happening in my pre-teen/adolescent world without a younger sibling howling an urgent need. Often, I read my library books until gurgles of hunger drowned out the words in my pony-tailed head. The “alone time” I carved out for myself in the front room was always a prized moment, a luxury equal to a candy run to Tinucci’s, the local family-owned grocery.

Like most front rooms in the 60’s, ours was a space reserved for company and special occasions. Toys and food had restricted access, as well as pets, schoolwork, and sports equipment. Tucked into the southernmost corner of our house, the off-limits parlor also offered a perfect view of our lively street corner. Being in this catbird seat, somehow made the bustling traffic zone of our kitchen, family room, and mudroom, fade away. 

The parlor’s formal floor plan held a rust-colored loveseat flanked by walnut end tables and cream lamps, two olive green damask club chairs that faced one another and guarded the fireplace, and a game table that overlooked our beloved neighborhood park. Drawn to the club chair that faced both the window and the doorway, it was my habit to land there late in the afternoon with my thoughts and good reads. As I nestled into the downy seat cushion of my favorite chair, I took care to protect the delicate fabric by placing one of the arm-protector swatches under my light brown hair. I knew that if I didn’t treat the parlor with respect, my mother would ban me from my treasured landing spot.

In that olive green chair, I graduated from Nancy Drew mysteries to mystical fiction, and from teen romance novels to literature and poetry. Whenever I left my refuge, I was mindful to replace the arm-protector and plump up the seat cushion, erasing the dent my hips and bottom had formed. Even now, it is my morning routine to sneak into my own living room and settle into the chair by the window where I absorb dawn’s stillness, reflect upon the complexities of life, and mull over my writing projects.

In writing about the house that grew me from a young girl into an adolescent, I’ve discerned how my current habits and preferences were formed early on. And it is by remembering and transferring the scenes and settings from my formative years to the written page, that I understand my adult self so much better. 

In memoir, details and reflections are the building blocks for believable characters and stories. Forming a riveting plot around characters and the world in which they exist is the toughest task for all writers no matter what genre they write. While I’m a huge fan of fiction, I do believe that real life is stranger than fiction. Capturing the people and the places that form true stories is the challenge which sends me to the computer each day.

Don’t miss a blog post!

Receive my blog posts directly to your inbox. 

Available on Amazon!