The Big Yellow House

• Essay
• Autobiographies

								
The big yellow house; you can't miss it. Framed by two equally as antique farmhouses, it sits nestled amongst rose bushes and ivy. Its foundation is notably warped, white trim peeling and blistering from the decades of exposure. As I climb the mossy stone steps leading to the front door, I can almost taste its history, and feel the memories contained in the ancient dark wood. 
My house has watched me grow up, seen every accomplishment, every failure, every dinner party, birthday, or funeral reception. It remembers things I have long forgotten. My house knows me better than I do, with all my conscious memories residing in its cracked plaster walls. I have no memories of the house I was born in, so my address on west eleventh is all I've ever known. It has always been glaringly obvious this was our home, and that it always will be. As early as I can remember, I have cherished this house. It's the everything house. A sanctuary with great stained glass windows and ornate wooden detailing. I fell in love with every creaky floorboard, the colorful tile in the kitchen, the layers of paint hinting at the lives of past residents, the peeling wallpaper, and original chandeliers - somehow perpetually coated in cobwebs. All of these features contribute to its uniqueness and character, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  
Sun seeps in from the cloudy single pane windows, illuminating the storm of dust particles dancing through the air. I ascend the winding staircase to the second floor and I can smell spring. When the weather starts heating up, the wood begins to warm, emitting the unparalleled aroma of nostalgia and dust; a tell-tale sign that spring has sprung, always evoking a sense of excitement and hope. The stagnant air concentrates itself at the top of the stairs and permeates through the second floor, seeing as we haven't had functional air conditioning since 2012. Each step has its own creaky tone, whining under your weight. Scaling these steps undetected would be an impossible feat, unless of course you've spent your adolescence uncovering its secrets. Around age six, I discovered that stepping not on the edge of the step, but deeper so your toes are wedged in the corner where the stairs meet the wall, provides much protection from the cacophonous alarm that is their creaking and croaking.  If you side step using this method, and avoid the third, seventh, and thirteenth steps, you can descend the stairs undetected. During my elementary years, this knowledge came in quite handy when hours had passed since my mom had kissed me goodnight and I would find myself craving my dad’s stash of fruit loops and my confiscated halloween candy. As I grew older it became useful in other endeavors, like sneaking onto the roof for a smoke, or creeping out after dark to walk around town and pretend I was grown. 
My bedroom, the pinnacle of my passion for the house, is my most cherished corner of this world. I am blessed with parents who granted me complete creative freedom over my room, so its walls have been covered in pictures and magazine cutouts, or anything else I find interesting or beautiful. I installed a hammock and endless plant hangers, so my slanted ceiling is littered with a canopy of fabric and vines. My room is the only place in the house that does not have exposed hardwood flooring- instead flakes of old paint chip up, revealing the five layers of color applied by previous owners. Why anyone would choose to paint over the original flooring, I do not know. My windows swing open instead of slide, a feature I've always been very fond of, and it welcomes the roar of cars passing by and the distant hum of leaves rustling in the wind. Sometimes in the spring, the breeze carries plum blossoms through my second story window and litters my bed with snow-like confetti. It feels like magic.  I view my room as a direct extension of myself, and I use it to express and explore my own identity as it shifts and grows. 
My rooftop is yet another gift granted by the antique architecture of my home. Directly outside my bedroom window, is a perfect perch overlooking the busy street and surrounding neighborhood. It provides an ideal sanctuary for observing; my favorite activity. From the safety of my roof, I can watch as pedestrians walk their dogs and as neighbors bring in their groceries. I am able to experience humanity from a birds eye view, and the benefits of this safe space are immeasurable. I sit, knees to my chest, and watch as the sun goes down and the stars come out. It connects me to my city and the people in it, clinging to the knowledge that everything is clearer from a higher perspective. 
	My living situation exposed me to all sorts of people, young, old, personable, reclusive, scary, and inviting. All of them fascinated me and I had an intense urge to ensure they all understood the beauty and grandiosity of my home. I was proud of it, and loved being able to share it with others. I would take their hand and lead them to all my favorite hiding spots, warn them about the leaky pipes, and brag about my mansion of a bedroom. I would caution them, saying things like, “don't use the microwave and oven at the same time, or you'll blow a fuse.” Or “be careful not to wear socks on the floors, or you'll get splinters the size of your finger.” I wanted them to know how connected I was to this place, and also invite them to do the same. And they did. That was just the power of the Big Yellow House; you couldn't not fall in love with it. I credit my social nature and love for people with my house, and the endless memorable experiences it provided.
 My home has five bedrooms, so growing up there was always a steady stream of occupants looking for a temporary room to rent. My mom needed the extra cash and childcare, so oftentimes the residents would double as my younger brother and I’s live-in nanny. Over the years we've had countless different people stay with us. Some of my oldest memories take place in the early morning, when my first nanny lived with us. I would creep up to her room, always smelling of incense and her roll on perfume, and sit with her in her bed. I would inquire about the adventures of her life, her parents back in Michigan, and ask about things like puberty and sex. It felt like gossip and made me feel grown up. She stayed with us for five years and we all considered her part of the family. She too found a home in the house, and found it very difficult to leave. She was the beginning of the endless flow of people lucky enough to revel in the magic of the yellow castle. 
	Along with its many occupants, my house is also the party house. If there's a dinner, christmas party, halloween bash, or anything of the sort, my house is the first choice. My dad owned a bar for the better part of my childhood, so ragers organized by his colleagues that went until the early morning were a weekly occurrence. Oftentimes music events would be hosted in our living room, stuffed with people covered in leather and chains. I loved it. And they loved me. I treasure the midnight chats I would have with my parents' friends, clinging to their every slurred word. We would sit, bundled up on the porch swing while they smoked and laughed and they would share their stories. So many stories. They would cup my face, get very serious, and enlighten me with their own past and regrets. Urging me to do better, and whispering things like, “don't make the same mistakes I did, live your life and love hard” through their cigarette and liquor scented breath. It was my favorite atmosphere to exist in and I felt so special to be included. After a certain point, the party would get too rowdy and my mom would fetch me and take me upstairs to tuck me in. I would fall asleep swirling with excitement and pride that I was included in such adult activities, listening to the distant chatter and muffled music. I always slept best on those nights.

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