I still remember the address. Box house with fine square corners that held off the rhododendrons and grass. Only three stories but enough. The basement was in the ground then two levels above. Entering the house, one had to encounter Jude who would bark and snarl a ferocious but rambunctious hello. One fireplace in the living room – curious as to why – the dining room affronted a small breakfast nook that served as a sewing room for my mother.
Ohhhh…the sun porch. The sun porch was on the second floor, overlooking Mt. Baker. One could see a smidgeon of Lake Washington and the hydroplanes that raced the lake once a year. I loved that room for it was part of my sister’s room, when she was there. I remember that she used an abalone shell as an ash tray. I would sneak in to smoke some of the cigarette butts. That smell, I know so well. I remember finding some odd cylindrical things, in her closet, that looked like they were stuffed with cotton. Mind you, this was the 70s. I was an investigative chap even then.
My dad re-did the kitchen. I remember when he was installing new technology – an extended hose that came from the top of the sink. While he was working on it, I took it and squeezed the lever – right at him. How was I to know?
And yes, this is the house where the eggs flew right in front of my mother’s eyes.