Case of the Nutty Blond

Have you ever felt the cold winds blow? 100 points to the person that recognized that as the first line in Lynard Skynard’s song Things Goin’ On. It is the theme song of my family, actually, because we seriously do live in the ghetto of Rock Springs. It is not the ghettoest ghetto in town—that’s only a few blocks away. By big city standards it isn’t really a ghetto, but there is a ditch across the street, the UPS trains rumble through on a regular basis, we don’t even get Channel 3 on TV, there are at least four sex offenders in the neighborhood, a couple houses that I’m pretty sure they deal drugs out of, four bars within walking distance (two of which are strip clubs), our tires have been slashed on three separate occasions, and the dirty children play barefoot in the streets. Oh, pardon me, the Urban Renewal Agency labeled us the “slum.” But seriously, how can they call our ghetto the slum? True, there are a few condemned houses, but two summers ago we got new curb and gutter!

Then there is my house itself: we have to use a spoon to flush our toilet, we had a tractor in our front yard and a truck that couldn’t run in the back, we don’t have siding, just Tyvek, and we have our own personal black hole (keep reading, I’ll explain in a minute). To keep us safe my dad turned our house into a fortress: we have a moat (which could have previously been used as a body pit), a plank to cross the moat, and we just recently got rid of our dungeon (complete with no windows, dirt floor, and crumbling walls), though I am not sure about how effective our guard dog is.

The reason that our dungeon is gone is because my dad is working to remodel our house. Not remodel as in to add on, my dad has actually taken parts off the house, but he has made it far more livable (except for the toilet; we’ve all given up trying to fix that thing). There is no space that is useless now, and the foundation is fixed and secure and the roof leak-proof and insulated, so we stay warm and cool as need be.

Sure, there are things that growing up in a typical suburban-like neighborhood with kids that you go to school with might have been nice, but I cannot say for sure, as I have never been there. I wouldn’t trade this ghetto childhood of mine for a billions dollars; where better to built character than in a house that has one of its own? Where better to learn to be aware of your surroundings and appreciate safety and beauty than in a place where you do have to be careful? Where better to learn social skills and peacemaking than when you are sometimes stuck with the same people for days on end?

Yesterday we had a 12-hour day pouring the concrete for the foundation for the back porch. (Currently we have no back door, only a black tarp and a nasty drop beyond—this is our black hole.) We finished filling the reform braces for the foundation wall at 10:30 pm—my dad, my sister, my brother, my uncle and me. Tired and literally caked in cement, but we did finish, and now we are even closer to having a back door and finished house. Everyone worked hard yesterday, even Mom, who kept us fed and our spirits lifted and we didn't kill each other, which is a challenge in and of itself. What amazes me is that even with the neighborhood and the year and a half of construction, our friends still seem to enjoy coming and visiting. It seems that there must be more to hospitality than a clean floor, or even a roof (which we didn’t have last spring, by the way).

You cannot say I have had a perfect life here or that this is the only way to spend ones childhood. I am merely eternally grateful for the memories, the laughter, the tears, and the lessons that I have learned because my parents were brave enough to make a house a home in the ghetto.