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From Mensagenda - January 2003
Partly Cloudy
by Karen Cyson
Home Sweet Home Part 1:
Rose Colored Glasses
I’ve been doing child-care in my home
for almost 19 years, so the sound of a
mother and child squabbling on my porch
was not surprising. Not, that is, until I
realized that all the full-time kids were
already here and the school-age children
wouldn’t be tumbling in for three hours.
Who could be here?
I opened the door and there on the
porch was a mom and kindergarten-sized
boy. I had no idea who they were. “May
I help you?” I queried.
The woman stood there and looked at
me. Her face was immobile—almost paralyzed.
Her eyes went through a flurry of
emotions. Pain, joy, fear, hopefulness.
What on earth was going on here?
Once again I asked her if
she needed something. Her
mouth moved as if to speak
and finally words
emerged.
“I used to live here,”
she said.
I peered into her eyes.
Of course! One of the
twins! When we purchased
this home twenty-five years ago it
had been the playplace for a nine-yearold
girl and her seven-year-old twin sisters.
Barbie shoes had been embedded in
the shag carpeting.
“Yes, you did,” I responded. “Would
you like to come in?”
She lit up. “Oh, could I? It’s been so
long!” She stepped into the kitchen, son
in tow, and gazed around. Of the three
girls, she was the only one who had ever
returned. This was her second visit. She
had ridden her bike over here one summer,
unbeknownst to her mom, when she
was about 10.
She continued to look around the
kitchen, and commented on how nice
and bright it was. Surely that couldn’t be
part of her memory? Her mother had
decorated the room like a cave. Dark
brown Cape Cod curtains had darkened
every window. The wallpaper had been
harvest gold with black dancing pears.
The only “bright” spot had been the white
plastic campaign-style buffet. I was so
glad they took it when they moved out.
Curious, she ventured into the dining
room. “We had so many great family
dinners here,” she remarked. Hard to
imagine. I don’t think I could’ve digested
anything with that bright blue oil-onvelvet
portrait of fat Elvis glaring down
on me from the wall. To each their own,
I suppose.
She rounded the corner into the library.
Her parents had used this room as
the master bedroom. How they could
sleep with that gold shag carpeting covering
every wall was beyond me. They
must’ve lain awake nights
apologizing to the God of
Interior Design for painting
perfectly good woodwork
with brown woodtone
enamel.
Then we went upstairs
and she paused at
the bathroom. “This was
such a pretty light blue,”
she said. “Yes, it was,” I
agreed, not bothering to
remind her that the blue walls had been
peeling masonite and the woodwork had
been painted with black enamel. It never
even occurred to me to bring up the flooring.
Twelve-inch square carpet tiles in
red, bright blue, avocado, and gold. Going
into that room had improved my posture.
I made it a point to never look down.
Now all horizontal surfaces and half the
walls were covered with top-grade white
ceramic tile. “It’s white now,” she commented.
“Yes, it is,” I replied.
She peeked into two of the bedrooms
and then stepped into the third, the largest
and now master bedroom. “This was
my beautiful pink bedroom. I just loved
this room!” Oh, my. There was no adequate
comment I could make to this, so
I remained silent. I remember quite clearly
what this room had looked like. Bright
red shag carpeting. Hot pink walls. Bright
red painted enamel woodwork. Hot pink
curtains and shade. The room looked like
a cheap bordello, even if it didn’t have
mirrors on the ceiling. I bit my tongue.
Slowly we went down the stairs. She
checked out the living room, the basement
family room, the front porch.
As I walked her to the door, she
thanked me for letting her visit. I told her
to stop by anytime. Then she stopped,
turned, and looked at me and paused.
“Don’t you just love this house?”
Yes. Yes I do.
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