My Childhood Home

Today’s the day! It’s your chance to share some of your favorite memories of your childhood home. Give me details: what comes flooding back when you think about it now?

My house was a white split level next door to the church where my dad was the minister. I remember the oak tree we climbed in our back yard, and the acorns we gathered from it to wing at our siblings. I remember using the tree to climb onto the roof of our house, and then being spotted on the roof by a neighbor driving by. He stopped the car and knocked on our front door to tell my mom what I’d been up to.

I remember the orange and gold diamond-patterned carpet in the kitchen, and how I played hopscotch on the diamonds. I remember my sister lying on that carpet tantruming at the ripe old age of 3 because she didn’t want to come inside for her nap.

I remember the storage closet under the basement stairs — it was the perfect place for a clubhouse, despite the ancient croquet set and the musty sleeping bags that took up part of the space.

I remember the sunny picture window in the living room where my dad hung a long shelf up high from four chains hooked into the ceiling, so that my mom could keep her plants safe from the many little ones in the house.

I remember sitting at that picture window in the living room in winter, watching the snow fall and the cars spin their wheels as they tried to drive up the hill on the street in front of our house. Always, always, my dad would go give them a push to get them going again.

I remember being fascinated by the tiny perfect hole in the window where a BB had been shot by a neighbor boy, and putting my tongue on the icy hole, and having my tongue freeze right to the glass. For a moment, before my panicked breath warmed the glass, I thought I was truly stuck.

Out that same window, I also remember watching my dad, thrilled over his brand-new snowblower, systematically clearing the driveways of half a dozen bemused neighbors, all with a black furry Russian-style hat on his head and a beatific smile on his face.

I remember bedtimes singing hymns with my mom as she nursed the latest baby. I remember morning devotions around the dining table with my dad, with the warmth of the basement wood stove filtering up to my feet through the vent in the floor.

Precious memories of home. I’m sure you have some too. Will you please share them with us all? Put your post up on your blog. Sign up below on Mr. Linkie. If you don’t have a blog, you can leave your story in comments. Then go to visit others who are sharing their own memories. It will be interesting to see what types of things are important enough to children to ‘stick’ with them their whole lives. I can’t wait to hear your stories!

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  1. What fun!! I posted my memories on my blog. But it also got me wondering what my children (twin 6-year-olds adopted from Russia when they were 21-months old and a 2.5-year-old bio surprise) will say about their childhood home…

    web site:

  2. Mine is up! It was a fun trip down memory lane and I can’t wait to come back later tonight and read some others.

  3. Can’t wait to make my way through the list and read the memories. Great idea Mary. Thanks!

  4. How fun! I’ve written about my childhood house before, so this one was neat- trying to come up with new things I hadn’t discussed yet. Can’t wait to read everyone else’s!

  5. That was a wonderful story and it was so nice to hear you talk about your home and the family you came from. What wonderful memories you have. Cherish those forever!!

  6. Great stories.

    I remember the tiny little room (closet) underneath the stairs — perhaps like the closet under your basement stairs. We called it a cubby-hole. It was just big enough for about 4 kids to fit in and stand up, but not high enough for an adult to enter and stand up straight. It was our own private hide-out, which is about as good as it gets for a kid.

  7. What a great idea! I loved your memories! I also enjoyed doing a blog of my own memories. Some of those things I haven’t thought about in a while!

  8. Those are truly beautiful memories. I can see why you want to create a special childhood for so many kids yourself!

  9. I was a bit late getting mine blogged but it was fun to think back.. Thanks for the idea

  10. Better late than never…? I moved quite a bit and my childhood homes are spread around five states, so I chose my favorite– our home in Wisconsin. I haven’t had much time to think about this, but when I began to think, one thing was clear: it was the outdoor spaces that touched me the most. Sure, I loved huddling by the fireplace blower to get warm, poring over books from the kid shelf, rollerskating in the basement, hiding in the back of one particularly deep kitchen cabinet, and marveling over the fascinating wonder that is a clothes chute (perhaps I was “easily entertained…), but it was the outdoors that captivated and held my spirit.

    Even my first impressions recall the outdoors: it was a house in a weed jungle. When we first moved in, the yard was nearly new and uncultivated and the weeds had been left to grow. Nearly an acre and a half of weeds above my head, some taller than my parents! Over the years we were there, the yard was tamed and was a wonderful place to run and kick a soccer ball by the hour or find caterpillars and collect them in a bucket “home” decked out with carefully placed weeds that we were certain a caterpillar would find to be pleasing decor. The driveway, once paved, was perfect for roller skating (not blading!) and hitting tennis balls up against the garage door– and occasionally over the roof into the gutters.

    And then there was the Rock Pile. Because that area of WI had been near the border of glacier coverage during the ice age, the ground was very full of what we called fieldstones– rocks of all sizes worn perfectly smooth by being dragged under the ice. Our neighborhood had been plotted on former farming fields, and in our yard happened to be the spot where four fields had joined together. There were a few small trees there and, dumped by farmers as the tried to plow the land, a huge pile of fieldstones, at least 10 feet in diameter, and probably 5 feet high in the center when we first moved in. I hollowed it out in the center, studied the rocks, climbed the tree… it was my little kingdom.

    Next to it was a slight ridge in the yard, sitting at such an angle to the wind usually, that we always had dramatic snow drifts there in the winter. One year it was twelve feet high! I remember walking out to our drifts, sinking into the snow hip-deep with each step at times, and digging tunnels through the snow. It never occured to me that I could be in some trouble if it ever collapsed on me.

    The gravelly roads of the neighborhood were in the shape of a horseshoe, with a few cul de sacs splitting off here and there, and just one way in or out of the neighborhood. Perfect for bike riding. In the center was a little park, ball diamond and, in wet years, a little skating pond.

    Surrounding the neighborhood were woods, fields, a country highway, another similar neighborhood, a cemetery and a dairy farm. So much to explore. My parents had no idea where I was most of the time! Just a few miles away there were several lakes, host to swimming in the summer and skating next to whole fishing villages out on the ice in winter. And the state forest was nearby, too, with trails to hike among evergreen trees, where the needles formed a perfect carpet to walk on noiselessly in peaceful beauty.

    What makes me sad is that my city children have almost none of such things as these to enjoy.

  11. Mary
    I have updated my blog about more memories that the carnival reminded me of you are invited to have a look if you so wish

  12. Wow, that was great, it brought back so many good and funny memories!! WHat a splended idea!!

  13. I just came across this as I was looking for quotes about home. I wanted to use it for my scrapbook. One home in which I lived from ages 5 to 9, to me, signify the happiest years of my childhood.

    It was heartbreaking to leave that home when my mother re-married. To an extent, I never got over that loss. It was such a quaint little old house with wood floors and glass doorknobs, plus a unique doorbell ring. It was sort of like a tickatickaticka over and over in quick sucsession (sp?). It was a fantastic little white house with green shutters.

    It was just me, my sister and my mom in this home and we had a babysitter that lived down the street that was like part of our family. It is my dream to be able to buy this home back. I think the same people that bought it from us some thirty years ago still live there so at least I know the home is well-loved, as it should be.

    If it is possible that your inner child leaves your body at night, I know my inner child roams the rooms of that wonderful old house that I miss so well.

  14. Is this comment section still taking Childhood Home Memories?