My first memories I have of my first home conjure up images of well-worn hardwood floors, a cushioned chair in the shade of goldish-yellow with sturdy arm rests made of wood, a small tv set in a deep brown colored tv stand that also held books an either side, and long filmy curtains in the windows. I was two and we lived in an apartment on the second floor of a two story home. The building was owned by my grandfather.       Â
My first home was full of life. There was me, a noisy two year old running around in shoes that echoed off of the hardwood floors, followed closely by my constant companion, our German Shepherd named Columbo, whose nails clicked and clacked on the hardwood. I couldn’t say his name correct, being only two so I settled for calling him “Bumbo” instead. There were cousins, family members, and friends coming and going in that little apartment. My dad would come home from work to crawl all over the hardwood floors with me riding proudly upon his back. Meanwhile my mom would be cooking or baking something delicious that would waft enticingly from the kitchen.Â
I remember the metal radiators, snake like in their coils, how they emitted such warmth throughout the little apartment. It was always nice and cozy there! I also remember the smell of the wood vanish used to clean the hardwood floors. How it seemed to take forever for it to dry, keeping me and “Bumbo” off the floors and interrupting our games of imagination.Â
That apartment is still around and still owned by my family. A testament to time standing still somewhat. Â
Posted from WordPress for Android