Here are some old photos of a house where I lived when I was eleven and twelve years old. We didn’t live there very long – less than a year, I think. When the house next door came vacant we moved there because it was a newer house, in better condition. I took these pictures with my first camera. It came with a roll of black and white film which, at the time, greatly annoyed me. I thought, “Nobody uses black and white film anymore.” Now I just wish they were better pictures. I fooled around with the brightness and contrast but this is as good as they get.
The room on the near end on the front was my bedroom. It was my favorite room ever. It was odd shaped, as you can probably tell. I regret that I never took any pictures inside. It was a large room. I got it because it was pink. It had floral stripe wallpaper that was in pretty good condition considering that it was probably as old as the house. The wainscoting and trim were pale pink. The chair rail was flat on top so it formed a two inch deep ledge all the way around the room. I put tiny knick-knacks (mostly just small toys, actually) on it. That was one of my favorite things about the the room, next to its shape and size.
Here’s another picture, showing how close the house was to the railroad tracks. The tree in the front yard was a pecan tree.
These were very busy tracks. Trains passed frequently all day and night and shook the whole house and rattled the windows. My room being on that side of the house, I guess you could say I got the worst of it but I didn’t mind. I liked the trains. I liked to watch them and to hear them passing by. I still like trains. I can’t remember if that started when I lived in this house of if I always liked them. I suppose my parents hated it. Also, the other side of the tracks was literally, “the wrong side of the tracks” but we never had any trouble from anyone around there. I even walked to school through the “bad neighborhood.”
It was a broken down old house that probably should have been condemned long before we moved in but sometimes I miss it. Or at least, I miss my room there. I still like very old houses. There’s a certain feeling about them. It’s hard to define – a comfortable, welcoming feeling. I had sort of hoped I might live in one again but unfortunately most old houses are on tiny city lots, which I do not want. As they say, life is full of compromises.