Writing 101: Size Matters

A sky blue and off-white metal rectangle on thinly hidden wheels was my school year home when I was 12. It had entry sheds at both doors. They kept the cold breezes from freezing its whole length and stopped the spring mosquitoes from swarming in.

Its front end held the kitchen which was quickly followed by the living room. Then down the tiled hall were bunk beds in bedroom one, bedroom/storeroom two, Pepto Bismal pink in bathroom three, and at the end the master bedroom big enough for a double bed and dresser with a mirror reflecting the way you came. It was 80 feet long and 10 feet wide, I think, or maybe 60 or 70. The size didn’t matter, what fit in, fit in. We played outside, except when it was really horrible. Then we filled the living room. Filled it until it was time to clean up and put everything away so you could walk or sit.

We lived there from September to May, abandoning it for a lake cottage in the summers.

I haven’t thought of that place for a long time. Somehow the house wasn’t important. It was the outside and the activities and the friends that mattered.


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