another time, another place.
I saw a post on Facebook yesterday. It turns out that a stranger on a Facebook resale site was attempting to find a new owner for her brown sectional sofa. Although I don't need a couch, during the course of reading her ad I couldn't help but notice that the final sentence said something to the effect of "...pick up only in Port Charlotte, on *** Street."
(*** Name of street has been asterisked to preserve greatness.)
Cool side story - I used to live on *** Street. Although I'd never seen her brown sofa before, I took a good look at the picture, particularly the 12" x 12" white porcelain floor tile and the wall jutting out behind the couch. I saw her small dog in the background, and behind it, a sliding door exactly where my sliding door once stood. It went out to a small porch, the one with green indoor/outdoor carpeting that used to get soaked every time it would rain. I remembered how I used to peel back the edges of the wet carpet, thinking that would help it dry faster. I never spent a lot of time on that back porch despite the aluminum furniture - the front porch was always where it was at.
The house wasn't much when I lived there. Four walls, jalousie windows, a few attempts at decent furniture. The bed didn't have a headboard or footboard, and navy blue sheets covered the windows in the master bedroom. I painted the walls to waive the deposit. I was so poor, some days the only thing I consumed all day was a pot of coffee and a half gallon of milk. But of course, I always managed to scrape up change to buy cigarettes.
I was poor but I was proud. I remember a bright winter day, listening to an Offspring cd while I stood on a ladder outside in January. The sun was warm, the music was loud. Things were pretty simple back then.
I listened to a lot of Linkin Park in that house. This morning, my 2.5-year-old son and I heard some in the truck this morning on our way to daycare - still reminds me of *** Street. Always has, always will.
I wasn't overly happy with my life then, but I look back now and remember those times and smile. It was my last time living a life where no one called me "mom." *** Street is where I lived when I joined the Army: I left at 5am on July 5, 2001, and I never stepped foot back in that house, yet it was a huge part of growing up and an enormous part of who I am today.
I had to ask. I emailed said stranger via Facebook and asked if she happened to live at 3662 *** Street. I told her I had once lived there -
I didn't expect to hear back, but she responded.
She lives at 3667, probably right across the street.
I told her I hoped her life turned out as great as this. :)
