October 2012
Avery
Chapter 3
Our house is located downtown in the Westchester area, amongst some of the oldest homes in Bakersfield. Nestled in the center, we are surrounded by aged, tree-lined streets and old-fashioned lampposts that still exist but rarely. It's quaint and eloquently whispers gentle reminders from long ago.
Some of the homes in our area date back a hundred plus years. Nearly half of them have weathered paint chipping from their outer shells, just like bad sunburns in mid-peel. The problem is due to lack of funds to fix them up, and/or the lack of will power to do so. Ours, however, is like a well-aged woman, timeless and beautiful.
Ours was built in the 1940s. Painted creamy butter-yellow, it’s edged with white trim and custom plantation shutters. It’s one of the few that has been repainted and updated several times over the past two decades. Similar to a dollhouse, complete with a full wrap-around porch and impressive columns, it looks like it’s been skillfully put together by a tiny man sporting a magnifying glass, headlamp, and heavy-duty Elmer’s glue. It reminds me of one you’d want to pluck right off of the street, pop into the back of your car, and take home to your little girl for a present, alongside a pile of plastic dollhouse furniture and little bendable people. If it weren’t my house, that’s what I would want to do anyway.
Setting my journal to the side on our whitewashed, farmhouse-style kitchen table, I leisurely take another sip of my morning coffee. Third cup of the morning. “Ahhhhh.” It slips its way down my scratchy throat, soothing it. I rub my neck; it feels oddly like a few popcorn pieces are lodged sideways in it. I swallow hard, but the bumps remain. I can feel a cold coming on.
Moving my journal closer, I roll the newly-sharped pencil in the palm of my hand. Someone once told me that the lines on your hands have meaning. One line supposedly means that you’ll live a long life. Mine is long and curved, without breakage. Another, I was told, means that your heart will be broken many times. I frown and run my pointer finger down the short, splintered lines that dip and stop abruptly. She was right about
