Foot Prints

I grew up in a mid-century tract house, in a middle class neighborhood in southern California. The house looked like most of the other houses in the plan; boxy and on a small lot. When they were built, I think fences were a part of the package, and as they aged, most of the wood basket weave fences were replaced by block walls, and changes were made so that each house became more and more distinguishable from it's neighbor. 

When I was 6, my little brother joined the family, and shortly thereafter it was decided that eventually we would have to add on to the house because we would really need the extra room. I. WAS. ALL. FOR. IT. When little brother, Bunns, started using a crib, my folks, in their infinite wisdom, decided that he should share a room with me. I don't  know why I was the lucky one. Probably because he was closer in age to me than to older brother, Ming. 

And so, I spent a couple of years being awakened each morning by a glass baby bottle to the head. It was before anything made from plastic was common, and pretty much all that was available were glass bottles with black caps. I saw one of them in an antique store recently. It still had it's original rubber nipple. I think that was a safe assumption because most of the nipple was rotted off and what was left was kind of a crusty sticky mix. 

Anyway, as my little brother aged, and he committed some kind of infraction, mom would just send him to his room. But by then, Ming, and I had learned to tightly close the doors to our rooms when we left for school, because if we didn't, Bunns, would wreak all kinds of havoc in our spaces in the name of "playing." So, when he was sent to "his" room, he entered the back hall to find all doors but the bathroom closed, which left him no place to go. I think that usually hit him harder than actually being disciplined for some wrongdoing. Most days he would re-emerge and tearfully tell mom "I don't have a room!" 

That finally tipped the scales and the time had come to add on the "bonus room" over the garage. We were the first two story house on the block and since it just soared straight up from the ground with no breaks in the walls, it really stuck out in a neighborhood full of ranch style homes. Dad built in some temporary walls upstairs to give my older brother a space up there, and little brother was moved from my room to the room next door. I was once again able to sleep without fear of concussion upon awaking.

After the addition was completed on our house, it needed a new coat of paint. We never hired anything out, because dad could do just about anything he put his hand to. Actually constructing the addition was a little too much job for him, but he did all the finish work inside as well as the painting outside. Mom loved green. She claims it's her favorite color because it's the same color as money. So it was decided that the outside stucco should be painted a mint green with a dark green trim. Most of the houses in the plan were fairly brightly colored, so that combination actually made it blend right in.

I was fascinated with the painting process. Previously, the cottage cheese texture stucco had been white, and now it was a whole new color. I wanted to help so badly but was never handed a paint brush. I managed to remain underfoot for most of the day. Until my bare feet took a wrong step and ended up in the roller tray. Mint green paint splashed up my legs and even covered a fair amount of my fanny. Uh oh. 

Needless to say, I panicked and ran down the sidewalk toward the street. My dad was behind me trying to get me to stop, while my mom just screamed out of frustration at what I had managed to do. I was not the most popular kid in the family at that point. 

Dad managed to catch me, and get me cleaned up, but by the time he was finished, my sweet little green footprints were nice and dry on the cement sidewalk. Latex paint with soap and water clean up was still a thing of the future, so the legacy of my "helpfulness" lasted well into my high school years. Occasionally, I would go out with a scraper or wire brush and try to erase the evidence of my panicked dance down the walk, but not much touched it. 

My hieroglyphics eventually wore away, only to be resurrected in a memory quilt assembled for my parents some time later.  Little brother managed to include them in the square he contributed. Of course. 

But He knows the way I take;

When He has tried me, I shall come forth as gold.

My foot has held fast to His path;

I have kept His way, and not turned aside.

I have not departed from the command of His lips;

I have treasured the words of His mouth 

more than my necessary food.

Job 23:10-12

Our childhood home under construction; with Ming and my dad

Several years later in the backyard