I’ve only seen the house I lived in until I was six on Google Earth. I was kind of disappointed to see that somewhere in the last 30 years someone tore the deck off the front of the house that my uncle built by hand.
I’ve driven by the next house I lived in a few times but haven’t been inside. I was there from age six to age 19. Someone took down the tree in the front yard that my sister and I used to play under. That house was brown with green shutters and trim when I lived there, it’s now green with brown shutters and trim.
According to Zillow, my childhood home is still ownned by the people that practically stole our house from under us during a period of finanncial distress about 20 years ago. I’ve driven past a few times while on vacation in the area, but can’t bring myself to ask inside.
I do know one thing about it, though. All the carpeting got ripped out in favor of wood or laminate or whatever. I know this because they sent the workers to start the task before we even left on our last day moving out. Freaking bastards.
Not only does my early childhood home looks small, it’s amazing to see how small my whole world was back then. My bestest friends lived within blocks, the hospital where I was born was just down the street, and the grocery store my Mom sent me on errands was across one major street. School was a 10-minute bike ride away, and my grandmother’s house (“Nana”) was across town. That was my whole world back then.
I only live about 30 miles from there but it’s worlds away. I’m sure I’ve romanticized it in my head, but it’s true that you can’t go back home. The 2-story playhouse that my Dad finished building when I was about 8 or 9 is now a ratty old dog house.
