My mom, my dad and my sister.
My entire childhood was spent at 1703 W. Bolivar Avenue in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. At the age of seventeen I left Milwaukee for college, and soon after my mom moved out of the three-bedroom duplex I had grown up in.
Fast-forward fifteen years.
I’m now 32 years old and living in Los Angeles with my girlfriend Kathy and our dog, Mr. Fabulous. Three weeks ago we moved into a one-bedroom apartment in a Jewish neighborhood near Beverly Hills.
It’s a nice place, an affordable place (at least for the size), but doesn’t have a whole lot of charm.
One thing it does have, however, is a tiny part of my childhood.
I recognized it immediately when we were first checking out the place. It was the exact same shade of pink (or “salmon,” if you want to get fancy), the exact same Seventies pattern.
There, just above the sink, it sat: The same wall tile that had decorated the bathroom I was potty-trained in.
Talk about reminiscing.
Maybe this place will have a dead hooker buried under the basement floorboards, too.
Ah… home, sweet home.