Just one of the many reasons last year’s Hurricane Ike tore at my heart when it went through Galveston: my childhood home.
Can you believe how gorgeous this is? I remember vividly playing outside by those trees, riding my big wheel along the grassy tracks, that beautiful wrap-around porch and steps, the little bathroom under the stairs, the graceful front staircase that wrapped around the foyer, and my bedroom — the one in front on the left, with the great windows — with the lion in the plaster on the ceiling. No, the grown-ups don’t remember that part, I’m sure, but I do. He was a friendly lion, and I often thought I saw him start to stir as I fell asleep, clutching my teddy bear and my doll Christie, dreaming of another day playing with my friends.
I’ve been back a couple times, driven by the house, and showed it to my husband when we were down there for a conference a couple years ago. It was a beautiful place to be three and four years old, and I have fond memories of my time there with my parents.
I hope my kids have half as good memories of their time here, in our suburban split-level, with treehouse, creek, and swings, as I did of my family’s time in that old Victorian.