Where I Grew Up

Two story-home.

By the time I was 12 years old, my home had grown boring to me. I was ready to find a new house with new secrets; a new town with new people.

The unfinished basement was always something of interest. We kids we’re denied entrance due to the fact it was unfinished, and it was just all around kind of disgusting. Instead of walls, they went up about 4-5 feet, then just filled with dirt. It was horse-shoe shaped, with the furnace being the only thing of importance really down there.

I used to imagine in the dirt was bodies- people dead by murder from the previous owners. Yes, apparently I had a crime interest even at 12. Us kids took every opportunity to go to the basement every chance we got.

But then there was the upstairs, with its slanted ceilings, and wobbly black railings around the staircase so you didn’t fall down. It was fun to squeeze our tiny bodies through the thin bars, or go on the other side of the rail and walk on the edge. Of course if the parents knew, we were in trouble.

Upstairs had also had three little bitty entrances to the “attic”, but I never did explore those. From what I can recall, the three entrances were filled with pink insulation and the were holes you could fall through. Which basically meant you had to make sure you found the boards to step on, which was difficult due to the fact the pink stuff completely covered the “floor”.

But I don’t know, I never ventured into those doors. Which is odd considering I was always into something.

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