My parents recently sold my childhood home. I knew it was coming, but I think it doesn't really hit you until you know you can never go back there again. I'll never have another excuse to drive down that street, or stop at the nearby gas station. It won't be any convenience for me to use that Dollar General, either.
It's just weird.
Luckily, I got to visit right before they moved everything out. The home is pretty old and beat up and nothing I'd want to move back into, to be honest. However walking through it I couldn't help but relive so many memories that happened in that house.
The kitchen where my sister and I fought off the exploding mess of potato soup we made for the first time ever, trying to avoid the burn of potato-to-skin contact.
The bathroom where one of my siblings would retreat during a round of tag, only to find a broom handle shoved under the door and waved emphatically as the tagger tried to hit his or her feet.
The living room where we set up modified version of Celebration Station games, one of which is fondly referred to as the "alligator game"in which the alligators pop out and the person playing has to hit them as quickly as they can.
Or even the backyard, where we once burned way too many wooden pallets after dismantling a makeshift back deck. The resulting fire ended up more of a bonfire, which we still tried to use for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. Of course, getting any closer than five feet was out of the question. I still remember the neighbors popping their heads out, asking if they should call the fire department.
Did I mention we lived a little way out in the middle of no where?
Anyway, I guess the fun part really is the memories that we carried away with us. Hopefully the house still a few special ones to give to the next family.
It's just weird.
Luckily, I got to visit right before they moved everything out. The home is pretty old and beat up and nothing I'd want to move back into, to be honest. However walking through it I couldn't help but relive so many memories that happened in that house.
The kitchen where my sister and I fought off the exploding mess of potato soup we made for the first time ever, trying to avoid the burn of potato-to-skin contact.
The bathroom where one of my siblings would retreat during a round of tag, only to find a broom handle shoved under the door and waved emphatically as the tagger tried to hit his or her feet.
The living room where we set up modified version of Celebration Station games, one of which is fondly referred to as the "alligator game"in which the alligators pop out and the person playing has to hit them as quickly as they can.
Or even the backyard, where we once burned way too many wooden pallets after dismantling a makeshift back deck. The resulting fire ended up more of a bonfire, which we still tried to use for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. Of course, getting any closer than five feet was out of the question. I still remember the neighbors popping their heads out, asking if they should call the fire department.
Did I mention we lived a little way out in the middle of no where?
Anyway, I guess the fun part really is the memories that we carried away with us. Hopefully the house still a few special ones to give to the next family.
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