My Childhood Home
My childhood home was on a 1.4 acre lot, with a three-tiered backyard and a wooden swing my dad had built for me. The lower tier housed two dad-made greenhouses growing perilla leaves and red lettuce that I would pick before dinner to eat with our ssamgyupsal. The lawn would be mowed with a John Deere tractor paired with a trimmer, with both parents taking turns on each power tool. The kitchen pantry was stocked to the brim, and four fridges were required to feed the family: the kitchen fridge, the kimchi fridge, the garage fridge/freezer, and the fridge in the attached suite that was purely used to store fish products from Korea and frozen blueberries.
My mornings usually smelled of extra crispy bacon that my dad would not cook any less crispy, even after my repeated complaints, and Costco croissants. Always paired with tons of fruit and a salad or vegetables. And then my parents stopped worrying about me and started leaving the house before I woke up, therefore I would make myself eggs and instant coffee and maybe read a book. The instant coffee has followed me for 10 years.
I distinctly remember how my room would glow in the sun, the type of birds that woke me up, and the air, so crisp and fresh that, in hindsight, the act of walking out on the patio with my morning coffee probably cured me of several ailments that I’ll never know.
I remember clearing the kitchen counters to play table tennis with my sisters right after we had Korean barbecue on the patio. We would then all grab our evening coffees and go sit outside while we watched the sun set, swatting away the nasty forest mosquitoes.
I remember every summer my dad would borrow an industrial-grade attachment to the John Deere to dig up the moss accumulated from the winter months and the entire family, along with the sisters’ husbands, would rake the 1.4 acre lot to gather the excess. And then a family of bears would come and knock over our apple trees or deer would eat our tulip bulbs, and my parents would swear to sell the damn house soon. Mind you, they didn’t believe in hiring gardeners.
I remember dancing on the sofa while my sister played her 20th rendition of “Battle of Waterloo” on the piano and then joining her to play chopsticks in awful sync and tune.
I remember running up the curved stairs, only to slide down the wooden railings like it was a slanted firepole, which eventually led to a crack in the railing and lots of yelling, even though my parents thought it was endearing how we would use the staircase as a makeshift playground.
I remember biking around the front yard when I saw a bear coming down the hill, and I pedaled so fast back to the garage that I slammed into my dad’s 2008 Cadillac. But it was okay because we would then proceed to road trip all the way down to Arizona and Utah in that Cadillac, driving across deserts with a cigarette dangling from his hand every 30 minutes. He would warn me before rolling down the windows and then trashing the cigarette into a Mcdonald’s coffee cup in the cup holder. My dad has always been the perfect balance between traditional Korean and the American Free Market.
I remember how I moved into my sister’s room and spent years and years perfecting the decor, consisting of multiple trips to Ikea, constant reshuffling of furniture to find the perfect angle required for the sun to hit my pillows the way I saw on Tumblr, and how I ultimately moved back into my childhood bedroom while I was going through an awful breakup because I couldn’t bear to be in a room that wasn’t directly tied to innocence and safety.
I remember the first time I smoked in my home, out of a makeshift water bottle bong in my room at 3 am, dousing the entrance with Bath and Body Works spray to hide the smell. I remember the last time I did shrooms on the patio, only for my mom to come home early and find me a weeping mess on the lawn chair.
I remember all my firsts in this home, and hardly any of my lasts. I dream in this house, often in the kitchen or the foyer. Everything brings me back to my childhood home.