There is a white house on Kensington, the place where the kid lived who used to come over and drink an entire jug of milk, the one my ex-husband went off the rails on, the kid of alcoholic parents who fought bitterly at night and worked their headached days away at Costco.
Today, there are laughing men on the roof, stripping away the shingles after a crazy man was evicted from the same house, who yelled at me once as I walked by, “Give me your guns,” after the milk family dissolved, moved away, went sour with its bitter curds.
There is a local derby here in our tourist-centered, retiree town with a real estate market that just won’t stop, confirmed by the women in their white, Clatsop County van, the duo from the tax assessment office who came out a month or two ago to walk around my house, make sure there were no expensive additions they could collect upon.
We talked about no rhyme-or-reason when it comes to property values and their due to the city coffers, but in feigned regret they told me all would be going up. At least my old house has only been mine and one other family, the Finnish, Sven Lund and his wife and kids, county commissioner and President of Bumble Bee Tuna. Yes, I’m sure they had their difficulties just as any family does, heartaches and restless nights, but the energy here is clean when compared to some of the turn-of-the-centuried residential lineages up for sale.
When I was a child, growing up in a pinkisk/beige, panty-hose colored house on 300 East, we were one wooded hollow away from the Sunday horse races in which we as Mormon kids weren’t allowed to attend, the all-day cheers, buzzers and bells, the drunken raucous the announcers mic-ed voice reaching in through my white curtains as I painted red nail polish on my nude tights to prevent further runs, to ensure one or two more wearing’s under my terry-cloth dress so I’d look put together for the Sunday School, Sacrament, Primary, three-hour race.
Photo Credit: Mathew Schwartz/unsplash
