#WhereILivedWednesday : Dad’s House

This is a mulberry tree and you can stand here and eat the mulberries and they taste good and you will not be poisoned to death. That’s the first good thing about my dad’s house. My dad is Ed. He’s an arbitrator and don’t ask me to explain what that means. Okay fine, it means one time we got a whole entire case of Salerno cookies. My older sister and brother live here too, when we aren’t living at my mom’s where my dad doesn’t live.

Right now my dad is across the street playing handball with Martin. It’s like pingpong but you use a tennis ball and the sidewalk. His wife Bina makes cookies with these hard fruit thingies that ruin cookies but I feel forced to eat them anyway.

Anyway, you can’t come in. But if you look in the upstairs window, those are my Sesame Street curtains. Do you think those are babyish for a six year old? All of the bedrooms are upstairs in a square around this beautiful fancy red carpet, so we call it Redwood Hall and sometimes we play Jenny and Johnny up there, and Stinky The Dog, and Whiff. I’m especially not going to tell you about Whiff.

Here is some boring information: In the kitchen my dad makes scrambled eggs and chili I don’t eat, and frozen pizza and pot pies. Sometimes we have Rocky Road or mint chip ice cream. I make my own lunch with bread and boloney and nothing on my sandwich that you spread ever.

Here is the second good thing about my dad’s house. I ride my bigwheel around the first floor in the living room. Sometimes I roller skate too. Inside our actual house. So you can say luck-duck now. Also, the basement is the best part of this house, so that’s the third good thing. We have a stage with all these blankets hanging around it and it looks real. We have the Free To Be You And Me script and we act it out.  I get to ride my big wheel down there, too. When someone will bring it down the stairs for me. When someone will play with me which equals never.

My Dad has an office on the first floor with an electric typewriter and lots of yellow pads of paper. He also has a recorder he never lets me play. Sometimes I sit on the beanbag and watch the eraser on his pencil while he writes. I can probably learn how to write adult if I can memorize how his pencil moves, but I always fall asleep instead.

Here is some more boring information. We have two bathrooms. The one downstairs has stains in the toilet. The upstairs one is blue and more beautiful and has less stains in the toilet.

My dad and mom are divorced. Barbara and her kids moved in. Then they moved out. When Dad came into the back yard and sat us down and told us that Barbara left, he was so surprised that I cried and cried. I wasn’t crying for Barbara. I was crying because he ruined our SPUD game when everyone played with me for once.

Now a lady named Bobbie and her daughter Amy come over. Bobbie told me not to roller skate in the living room and I told her “You can’t tell me what to do. You aren’t my mom.”

Now it’s your turn! Link up below. No rules on what/how you write, just that it describes a place/state of mind you once inhabited. No need to have a blog, either! Post some recollections on Facebook with the hashtag #WhereILivedWednesday.