When I was little, we lived in Marin, a small town outside of San Francisco, California. Specifically, we lived in Kentfield, which is a town that even some of the people who live in Marin have never even heard of. Number 338, Kent Ave. was not a new house when we moved in. The stairs leading up to my brothers’ bedrooms were covered with the ugliest green carpet you could imagine. It was absolutely horrendous.
But then my mom decided to put her decorating talents to use, and we moved into our friends cabin while our house was remodeled. The cabin was so small that I had to share a room with my two brothers, and the youngest of the two eventually had to get his tonsils removed because he snored so loud.
The remodel seemed to take years, although in reality it didn’t take very long at all. I remember sitting on the front porch and talking to one of the workers. I ended up begging him to have the house down before my birthday.
And although the house wasn’t done in time for me to have my birthday party in it, it was eventually done. My favorite room quickly became the living room. It was in the very back of the house, with a door leading to the backyard. All the walls were painted white, except for one. It was hidden by a gigantic blue book-case, filled with novels, dictionaries, and my personal favorites: The picture books.
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