The Lyon Street house was a Queen Anne style house. Much wider at 30 feet than the “Yellow Stick”, and four stories tall, from basement to the au pair suite on top.
Once, a four bedroom house, it had become five apartments. This meant there were five bathrooms and five kitchens – five cast iron tubs…yi.
My parents bought it in hopes of renovating it to a single family residence and they did.
Gutting rooms, finding the spare crowbar still hanging in the rafters from a project before, un-layering walls that were papered with the news of that day, finding a delightful hardwood floor under it all, an extra 2 feet above, and finally to reveal a beautifully furnished house.
Moving from room to room, discovering things from World War II, trinkets tossed out the window in the crawl space below, that house became a veritable story telling vent for my creative nature. I would stand on the back porch and gaze at the moon, scribbling furiously in my red or yellow, spiral bound notebook.
The inspiration that house gave was enough to fuel me even now as I remember the crooks and corners of each nuanced room and experience.
I loved that house.