the story

now that i'm a writer, i intend to tell the story. and it goes a little something like this.

we had the play room, cement floor painted nicely green room. basement. i loved it. we had a cool slot car track that my dad put on a little table, also green. there was the "toy box", this big cardboard box full of all of your stuff, and you just threw it in there when you were done, so you could clean up real quick. it was dark blue with a yellow lid. i wonder where my dad got that.

jane misseldine raised me until we moved a few miles to the robinwood district. she was a staunch mormon, kind of a trip now that i really think about it. my mom was a teacher and an old school mom. dinner, a well contemplated healthy variety, was always on the table at five thirty. we talked about things, but it wasn't how you're picturing. but it was good. sometimes when we went to the store my mom would agree to buy one of those "sugary cereals". me and my brother, eric, would chat between our bunk beds about how excellent the cereal was gonna be tomorrow. the room was split with this wainscoating, white on bottom and robin's egg blue on top. and the top was curved. i had a picture of an old timey car that came as a kit from my mom and dad. it was one of those things that you spread out some glue and sprinkle colored particles on it, like ted sawyers "art". it had some shiny black cord with which you could define the lines. my mom helped me make it, and the feeling of that moment is still here. ironically, my dear mother has no artistic talent whatsoever. man, i loved my mom and dad and my brother. we had inside jokes. you know, maybe that's the luxury of family that some never have. i am embarrassed to say that i have taken it for granted. i have to go.
r.

next blog: chapter two.