A is for ...

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.   :)