We rented in Belmont in the 1960s from a woman who joined the Peace Corps at age 59. The corners of the attic were full of masks grinning from the shadows and a pair of crutches perfect for catapulting off a mountain of mattresses. The sun porch on the side of the house was the place to practice my recorder. The French doors shut noisily for dramatic moments. In that sunny room I began my journey as a musician, making up tunes and learning to read notes even before I began to read words.
One of my strongest memories of that house was sitting in the wooden nook in the kitchen watching my mother wrestle with recipes from her Harvard Wives’ Cooking Club. I remember the first time we tried artichokes, dipping steamed leaves in butter and pulling them through our teeth. Under the leaves were thorns and feathers, a vegetable fit for a fairy tale. My neighbors across the street lived with their grandmother, a likely survivor of the Armenian genocide. She would offer me flaky, warm cheese pie, a concoction I could not refuse. Full of cheese pie, I would stand guiltily in our kitchen, afraid to tell my mother that I was too stuffed to eat the dinner she had made.
On one side of our house lived the neighborhood naughty kid who tormented me but was good for riding bikes with on the paved stripes of our adjoining driveways. In his backyard was a foot-wide bottomless hole. We spent hours peering in, wondering how long it would take to get to China, which was where you would end up if you fell in. In winter we slid down the hill at “The Res,’’ landing on a neighbor’s front lawn.
On the other side of us was a family with five kids left in the hands of the oldest girl. In a giant leaf nest between our two houses we pretended to be homeless orphans. We brought out a Sears catalog to dream for a better life. My family was the only Jewish one on a street full of Irish Catholics and Armenians. I came home for lunch one day, crossed myself, and asked my mother what I should give up for Lent. Her gentle explanation of religious differences did nothing to console me later when Santa neglected to go down our chimney at Christmas.
At age 6, I made my first solo trip down the street to a branch library that looked like a cottage where dwarves lived. I fell in love with books and reading. That neighborhood is where I also fell in love for the first time, with a sparkling young man who held my hand on the swan boat field trip.
In the arms of ancient chestnut trees, we kids waged war on the neighborhood with bags of polished chestnuts. Skilled in “duck and cover’’ drills from school, we knew how to protect ourselves from retaliatory chestnuts. In summer, whole neighborhood water balloon fights ensued.
After many moves, this house, the neighborhood, and the people in it color my strongest childhood memories. I often wonder where my playmates ended up.
Robin Miller has been an English/drama teacher in the Newton public schools for 29 years. Send comments and a 550-word essay on your first home to Address@globe.com. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue.
