#3 it is..

Yes, it's # 3...the place I lived while growing up. More specifically, it is a basic little 2 bedroom duplex right on the edge of the San Leandro/Oakland border in California. I "visited" it this past January on my "pilgrimage". The only difference between what it looks like now versus 25 years ago (WOW) is that there are now black "safety" bars on the windows. Remember, I DID say it is located at the OAKLAND border...murder capital central! I don't recall worrying so much about murder back then....

I was a little shocked to see the place nearly exactly the same. In some ways, it was comforting. Part of the reason I stopped by was because I wanted to be where MOM had been. And she had been there...LIVED in that place with me. She parked our Red Volkswagon hatchback in THAT carport. She had a little party for me when I was about 8, RIGHT THERE in that parking area. It was warm and I wore an orange/white swimming top & shorts.
One Sunday, I wrote a letter to her thanking her for everything and telling her how much i loved her and that when i grew up i was gonna get married and have a big house and she was gonna live there too. I put the letter, written on orange paper, in an envelope and stuck it in the mailbox. Later on, I went outside and got it and said, "oh, mom..you have mail." (IT WAS SUNDAY)
She opened it, read it and cried and I knew that I had touched her heart.

I shared a room with her and my sister. They slept together in her big bed and I slept on a single flat cot. The 2 boys slept in the other room. When she died, us kids moved next door to the adjacent duplex where my grandma lived. Thinking about it now, I'm a little surprised they lived so close to each other cause they fought a lot...i guess it was one of those mother-daughter love-hate relationships.

I didn't exactly "move out" of the place. My stuff, our stuff, was moved for me. I was in the hospital all broken up after the accident. When I was released from Children's Hospital, I had a hospital bed at grandma's and another family was living in the place that used to be ours. THAT was weird...coming "home" and not having one. I kept thinking, "where is ALL our stuff? where is ALL my stuff." Til this day, i still don't know what happened to a majority of our things. I feel sad about this because they are things that meant something to me. There is no one around to ask what the heck happened.

At the time of mom's death, my brother Greg had already been in trouble with the law and had been "incarcerated" at that time. The authorities released him to attend the funeral. Months later he was released and we were at grandma's. He was upset and wanted to go inside our old house. We went outside and looked at the place and he began crying and yelling: "I want to go inside my house...that's my house..." I'll never forget that moment. We were all stripped of all that we knew and it was so quietly confusing and devastating.

One time, I actually went inside the old place. It was months after the accident and I had been able to walk again. The people who had moved in became neighbor/friends and one day I asked if i could come in. I walked in and put my feet on the cold brown tile. I just stopped. My legs were shaky. I turned around and walked out.

Like I said earlier, going and looking at the place was somewhat comforting to me. The memories I have of my childhood revolve mostly around that dwelling and what took place there...some good memories and some horrible ones. It was something I needed to do, especially since I have absolutely nothing that was mine from that time and place.

For as much building and tear downs and re-building I have seen all over, it's neat to see the old place still standing.