The “New” House – 1962

This house was always and forever called the “new” house, even though my family lived there for forty years or so.

This was state-of-the art sixties ranch fashion. Three bedroom, two baths, family room and living room and a full basement. In our family’s typical fashion, we found a subdivision house that was eccentric, apparently just waiting for us.

The house’s two bathrooms were connected, separated by a door, which meant that you could actually sit on the toilet, open the door (having locked the two on either end) and hold long conferences with your sister.

I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now, why ANYONE draw this plan and say “Yes!” instead of “Are you out of your mind?” Visitors would occasionally ask about this strange arrangement, and frankly I’d gotten so used to it that it seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

My sister, the semi-pro singer with an amazing and BIG voice, never understood that you cannot wait until 2 in the morning for a shower, then sing at full volume in the small tiled shower with a glass door (which shared the wall with the master bedroom) without rousing our mother from a deep sleep.

She would, in the immortal words of our father, come “boilin’ up” out of the bed, ready to take on anyone who wasn’t asleep, most particularly my sister. They would full-voice argue for a while, then quiet would be restored and everyone would go back to sleep.

This fits into that file of “I don’t get it” stories that I’m posting. I even tried to ask my sister, but she doesn’t have a good answer. I still wonder, why does one keep doing things that you KNOW will only cause trouble?

I was smarter that, or at least a better tactician. I quickly figured out that if I did mostly everything perfectly – good grades, good behavior, good manners, and the like, I could slide on things like keeping my room clean. Years and years later, I was discussing this with my second-born son, pointing out to him the benefits of selective obedience, when he shocked me with, “Well, duh, mom.” I didn’t know whether to be proud or annoyed, but obviously there is something in the genes.

When it was decided that we would move from the “old” house to the “new”, I very loudly refused to go. Nope, you can just leave me behind and I’ll live in my playhouse.

Daddy had finally built me the playhouse of my dreams. Starting from the top – a perfect fake brick chimney, shingled roof, shuttered windows that slid open and closed, window boxes with petunias. I had ruffled white curtains, and daddy built a “couch” that perfectly held a seat cushion. There were shelves inside on the walls. The exterior was white and the shutters were green. No one ever, ever had a playhouse as grand except maybe Shirley Temple.

But the new neighborhood had pages and pages of deed restrictions. Among them there were not to be any “outbuildings” – obviously designed to keep people from having tool sheds and such.

Other daddies would have “put their foot down” (a favorite phrase of mine that could not ever apply to my father). They would not have tolerated this level of insubordination in the ranks. I cannot think of another father of my acquaintance that would have indulged me. But I was the lucky one.

First, daddy went to meet with whatever governing board was in charge of enforcing deed restrictions. He petitioned for a waiver and got it. He then hired a crane to lift the playhouse onto the back of a very large flatbed truck. Then down the highway they went – I like to think my ruffeldy curtains were blowing in the breeze, but I’m sure I closed the windows.

At the “new” house, the process was reversed, but this time it was harder because the enormous truck had to carefully back between two new houses. The crane operator had to carefully set the playhouse on the new foundation. Then, to meet the requirements of the homeowners association, the house was painted beige with trim to match our house, and the roof was covered with cedar-shake shingles – also a requirement. All of this was done before we moved in. And so, as any good princess would do, I deigned to come along.

Whew! Who would do that? Indulge me for a moment – whenever I hear someone talk about God showing infinite love for His children on earth, I think about daddy moving my playhouse. I guess that’s why I have no trouble at all believing in the Infinite. Just one other thing, daddy was the only person I know who never mentioned your transgressions a second time. Mind you, I didn’t do too many bad things (but when I did I am embarrassed to admit their size), but once there was a gentle discussion, it was never mentioned again.

And so, there we were, in a suburb that was growing like crazy because of people like us. My parents had no confidence that the city school district would act in our best interests. Safety and quality were the real issues, but the arguments quickly devolved into race, which was the saddest use of lowest common denominator ever seen.

If the schools had stayed safe, and if the emphasis had been on quality education for everyone, I don’t believe history would have unfolded the way it did. Shame on everyone concerned. And shame again.