Tuesday, June 30, 2009


My dad sold the house where my brother and I grew up—the house my brother dubbed "The House of Pain". Although we tease about our agonizing times on Jackson Street, we had many, many good times in that house—all those pastrami sandwich parties in the kitchen, Christmas cheer in the front room, Red Sox games on the TV in the living room, card games in the dining room, sneaking smokes out my bedroom window and the underage drinking parties in the basement (sorry Dad!). I haven't lived in that house for nearly two decades but I could always call Newburyport home because of that house. But now no longer.


Amy said...

I remember the house I grew up in, and how the sunlight coming in through our sliding glass door would warm up the rocking chair, even when the rest of the house was cold. I think I know a little bit of how you feel.

Coleen said...

Exactly. Those "little" memories mean the most.

Rachel said...

Oh my goodness! So many memories in that house! From the faint - raiding the candy drawer after school when we were what? 10 maybe? To the more vivid - when PJ stuffed me in that bike box and threw darts at me. Or when Joanie was yelling at us through your bedroom window. Or when Timmy kicked me in the shin with his boot. I still have a bump -- House of Pain, indeed! I can still remember the layout of your house and probably always will. Sounds like good times to me.