by Marya Tenney

Created on: July 11, 2009   Last Updated: July 12, 2009

When I think of people who only know me now, only know my family now, I feel a kind of desperation; a frustration. I want to be able to drag them back in time, through the doors of my childhood home. Only then would they truly understand me. Only then would we not seem so sad, so lacking, so broken.

It was a large home on a main street. Ten rooms were encased in beige stucco. A low stone wall stood out front. The house was back from the road with a pretty magnolia tree in the front, and rhododendrons guarding beautiful, long, vertical dining room windows. It was both elegant and accessible. It was tastefully decorated yet warm, welcoming and casual. No designer had come anywhere near. It was filled with collectibles and knick-knacks, ranging from collections of Lalique crystal to kids' Plaster of Paris handprints. Unlike so many beautiful houses you see in the town where I now live, it was clear that people really lived inside this house.

When entering through the front door, one would find themselves in a large foyer. It was rare that anyone did this. We were a back door house. Everyone used it and very few knocked. When the front doorbell rang unexpectedly, we would immediately become suspicious. Who would come to our front door? Who would ring the bell?

Friends hardly ever used the front door. But if they did, on the left they would find a pristine living room with white, plush carpet. Straight ahead would be a flight of carpeted stairs, and to the right was the rest of the house: a dining room, den, kitchen and pantry.

Most of the time, we lived in the den, a family room. It had dark paneling and sagging but inviting couches that were always occupied with friends and family. We watched television, read the newspaper, chatted and ate there. It was invariably a mess. If someone new entered, we would have to scramble to find a spot for them to sit by piling the newspapers into a different spot. People dropped in a lot as they passed by our house on the way home from work. This was life on a main drag, fostered lovingly by my parents.

The house was rarely quiet. When it wasn't filled with people, there was always the television or opera on a stereo blaring. But usually it was busy with people. There always seemed to be parties. It can't be as many as I remember, but there were many celebrations and casual gatherings. Regardless of how organized an event it was, many a Saturday night was filled with friends. It could be two people or twenty.

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