The House on Clydesdale Lane

The small townhouse always had the inviting fragrance of freshly cut flowers in the morning and the delicious aroma of my mother's secret recipes in the early evening.   Anyone who entered was immediately greeted by the fragrances and found themselves staying a little longer than they planned.   The delicate light from my grandmother's antique lamp beckoned sleep and the faded striped cushions on the worn living room couch held many a drowsy head in those days.


The inside of the house consisted of rooms that were small and barely separated so that you always knew what was going on in the next room.   From the living room, you could see my mother giggling at one of my father's corny jokes as they prepared supper together.   In the living room, my older brother was most likely teasing my sister and me and tickling us until we screamed.   We played games of "go-fish" and Chinese checkers as we waited for supper to be ready.


We always ate dinner together in the dining room that barely separated the kitchen from the living room.   The dinner table was a small wooden square that had wobbly legs and shook when one of us laughed.   Sometimes trivial arguments took place when my brother would hurl mashed potatoes from his spoon at my sister or me.  


After dinner, my sister and I raced to see who could make it up the stairs first to put our pajamas on for bed.   My dad read stories to us and often told us stories from when he was a boy.  


It was a warm house.   It was warm even in the icy winter months when the heat was turned off at night to save money.   My younger sister and I snuggled together in the bed we shared and used our hairbrushes as microphones as we lip-synched the songs on our tiny radio.   Sometimes during those nights we played "Candyland' when we were supposed to be asleep—until we were caught.


The outside of our house looked much like the rest of the houses in the neighborhood.   The peeling green paint flaked off into the...