Memories From my Childhood

My Favorite Childhood Room



Our house was over 100 years old, with long narrow windows and a black lacquered front door, made of solid oak. When my dad stripped the lacquer off the door, it still showed the cut marks made by charcoal or a pencil that served as a guide for the original door maker. Our house was a medium brown colored two-story stucco dwelling, nestled between old elm and pine trees that sat atop a hill. In the winter if you stood at the very edge of the street, on your tipee toes, you could see Lake Calhoun at the bottom of the hill. I loved my old house.

My room, located on the second floor, was shaped somewhat like a hotel suite, with a separate sitting area that boasted two windows. On the wall next to the windows was the door to the attic, a room I very seldom entered, as my imagination allowed me to think about all the creatures that could possibly inhabit that space. The wall opposite the attic door hosted my dressing table, where for hours, I would sit looking into my mirror, pretending I was a princess waiting for my valiant knight to sweep me off my feet.

In the corner of the sitting area, was my doll crib, with my two favorite dolls. My great-grandmother had made me a sheets, blankets, and a spread for my crib. I had the nicest crib in the neighborhood. In the other corner was my dollhouse. Made of wood, my dollhouse contained four rooms, a bathroom, and an attic. One Christmas, my dad and cousin, Bob, stayed up late painting the house. It looked like a Swiss chalet, white, with a very dark green roof, and red trim. Dad and I were in the process of putting electricity and wallpaper in the house. I spent hours playing and rearranging furniture.

In the sleeping area, directly across the windows in my sitting area, was my bed. Not the sleigh, or canopy bed of my dreams, but a four-poster that had been in my family for years. It was a double bed, quite large for a seven-year-old, and yet not too large for the room. I had two windows by my bed as well. Sitting on my bed, I could look out my window and see the street I lived on. I used to love looking out the window and watching the snow fall, creating blankets for the streets and sweaters for the trees, so they wouldn’t get cold.

Next to the bed was a matching nightstand. A radio, my favorite Christmas present to date, was on top of the night stand. Every night my brother and I would listen to Mystery Theatre, hosted by E.G. Marshall, on our radios, talking to each other from our respective rooms about the show. To this day I love listening to stories aloud, if they are told well. I also had two piggy banks; one of the IDS building, where my dad worked; and a pink Dumbo bank, with floppy polka-dot ears. There was never much money, I loved to buy candy at the store by school.

My closet door had a mirror on it, and I preened in front of it daily, checking out my outfit, and making sure not one hair was out of place. I liked my closet, as it was large and roomy with more than enough space for my clothes. My only complaint was the lack of shelf space. My brother had all kinds of shelves in his closet, and of course, I felt those shelves would be better suited in my room.

On my walls were pictures of ballerinas in pink and white tutus, all lacy and frilly. I also had a painting of Minnie Mouse, given to me by my great-aunt as a Christmas present. She had painted Mickey for the boys and Minnie for the girls. Minnie was allowed to grace my bedroom walls because she wore a pretty pink dress and a great big pink bow in her ears.

My room was my haven, my place to play dress-up, dance, daydream, whatever I wanted. Life was perfect in my room, except, it wasn’t pink. Begging my parents to paint or wallpaper my room pink was a task that started and ended just about every day. I felt my room would be perfect if the walls were a soft pastel, pretty shade of pink, not unlike the tutus I always saw and the dance shops. Every day, I had to imagine my room was pink, with the windows trimmed in white. I can still see it now, as I saw it in my mind’s eye at six, my beautiful room, not with walls of drab white, but a soft, soothing, sweet pink, like cotton candy at the state fair.

During the summer of my eighth year, my mother, one day called me into the house. Running inside, I asked her what she needed. Go to your room, was all she said.

Horrified at the thought of being in trouble, I stammered that I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Go to your room, she said again.

Again, I told her I had done nothing wrong. My mother’s tone was not harsh, but standing at the bottom of the stairs as I was, and her at the top, I felt very overpowered and small.

Confused and whimpering, I slowly climbed the stairs towards my room, not a sanctuary at the moment, but a prison looming ahead, waiting to hold hostage its prisoner, for a length of time to be determined by the crime committed. How quickly a room can change. A haven if you enter under your own steam, a prison if ordered to go. I entered my room despondent, with my head down and threw myself on the bed.

Something wasn’t right.....my bed felt different; I raised my head from the bed and looked down. My bedspread was different, I looked around, my whole room was different. On my bed now was a beautiful white chiffon-like bedspread decorated with pink and purple butterflies, all with their wings spread. On all the windows were tie-back curtains made with the same chiffon-like material showcasing the same glorious butterflies. Each curtain and tie was edged with ruffles. And my walls, my beautiful, beautiful, walls. No longer would I have to daydream about them. They were real now, the most wonderful, scrumptious shade of pink. Cotton candy, tutus, fairy princess dresses all rolled up into one breathtaking color, that before was in my head. No more. My parents had made my room more than I could ever have thought possible.

Hugging myself, I ran downstairs to thank my parents, tears still streaming down my face. I am sorry, my mom told me, I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just wanted you to be surprised. I didn’t think you would get so upset.

That’s okay, I said, as I wiped my nose with my sleeve for the hundredth time. I love my room! It is the greatest room in the house now.

Be sure to thank your father, he’s the one who painted the room.

I will, I shouted as I ran back up the stairs. I sat in my room for the rest of the afternoon.

About a year later, my dad was transferred to Michigan, and we sold the house. Mom told me that the people who bought the house had a little girl who loved my room. When the family bought the house, they asked us to leave my beautiful bedspread and curtains for their daughter, as they matched the room. I was devastated. It was my room. It was the first place that was truly mine and I wanted to take it with me. My mom assured me that my new room would be just as special as this one. She also thought it would be nice to let the new little girl have a favorite room. While I never fully agreed with my mother, I left my room as it was and moved.

I spent the greater part of my childhood moving from one place to the next. I went to two elementary schools, two junior high schools, and three different high schools. In each town, each house, or apartment, I had my own room. Some of the rooms were terrific, decorated by interior designers that had an eye for color and style; some rooms were just that; rooms. They never became mine and I never tried to create my space.

In Michigan, I had a fabulous room. My parents tried very hard to help me with this room because Billy Anderson, his brother Bobby, and Jeff Fletcher were all too happy to tell me that the boy who had lived there before me, Tommy Butler, had snakes for pets and had left one behind for me to find. For years I dreamed about snakes underneath my bed.

My parents really outdid themselves with this room. Interior decorators helped my mom pick out the perfect wallpaper, matching bedspread, sheets, and drapes. My four-poster bed became home to a plaid bedspread in varying shades of pink, brown, yellow, and green; with matching sheets, pillow shams, and throw pillows. I had given up my IDS piggy bank, but still held on to Dumbo, though he graced my desk instead of my nightstand. Also on my desk was a very modern pink lamp trimmed in white; Snoopy desk accessories, given to me by my cousin; and my jewelry box. My desk doubled as dressing table.

My room was spacious with two windows, one on each corner. The windows were quite large and taking out the screen was very easy as I did it many times to sneak out and play when I was grounded. The windows were covered with light pink and white gingham curtains, custom-made specially for my room. These were not the tie-back curtains of my favorite room, but they were very nice and I tried to take very good care of them. My bed was on the wall with the smaller window. There was nothing on the wall with the larger window, as nothing would really fit. The large window faced onto the street, while the smaller window faced the neighbor’s house.

That room was mine for six years; until my parents got divorced and I moved with my dad and my brother to a townhouse on the other side of the city. My mom stayed in the same complex, but she had an apartment a couple of blocks away. There were slumber parties, daydreams, studying, growing up, and all kinds of things that went on in this room, the last room I had as a member of a complete family. There were also tears, sorrow, broken hearts, and lost dreams as my world changed far more than it had when I left my favorite room six years earlier.

I spent a lot of time in my room the last few months of my parent’s marriage. They spent quite a lot of time fighting, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Where my favorite room had been my haven, this room had become my hideaway. I stayed in here, not because I felt peace, but because I felt I had nowhere else to go.

This room, as beautiful as it was, was created, in my mind, from a sense of obligation, where my favorite room, I felt, was created more out of love. Maybe it was because my other room had been such a surprise, and this room was very much planned with my knowledge. I never had the same memories, or nostalgia, associated with this room as I did with the pink room. My memories of my favorite room are always filled with the same sense of wonder and glee as I remember seeing my dream room, that day, come to life. Some people tell me that I remember this particular room so positively and vividly because it was the last place my life was perfect; before my parents were divorced, and my life changed forever. For some that might be true; however, no life is perfect and problems persisted in my favorite room as well as any room I lived in after that.

I have been very fortunate to be able to have a choice when thinking about a favorite room. Many places have been home to me and the knowledge I have gained from each place I have lived has made living in so many different places wonderful. It wasn’t until I got married that my urge to move and explore new places and towns subsided and I felt at peace. I am home now and my favorite place now, and forever, is here, with my family.