I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn̓t. I lay there and thought. My winkie, a night light my dad had made for me out of neon lights that flashed, was gone. The crystal set radio dad had made for me was also gone. The long aerial that stretched from my window to the peach tree in the back yard was still there, but the little box that housed the crystal set itself had been packed. It was the last night in the only home I had ever known. Now I was to leave it forever. I didn’t want that to happen. I told myself I would buy it someday when I got older.
My mind drifted back to thoughts of what I had done in that house: pretend swimming on the kitchen floor with my sister Vera, playing the organ as loud as we could, the Christmases when we had our tree up in the living room. It all came back to me. With thoughts like this, I drifted off to sleep.
The next day was Karen’s first birthday. Because of that, I can accurately fix the day we moved as July 21, 1966. That day marks the beginning of the vivid memory of my childhood.
Karen opened the few presents she had received. Then we got to work packing and loading the last few items. Dad took apart our beds and took them out to the truck. Then the house was really bare. Just then some people burst into our house, carrying couches and other furniture. My dad apparently knew them. “Wait,’t he said. “My wife said I needed to vacuum the floor before you move in.”
The father of the new family said, “Oh, don’t worry about it, Bill. It looks fine.”
I noticed that the new family had lots and lots of boys. I wondered why they were moving into our small house, and we were moving to a bigger one. I didn’t like them. They were rough kids.
They had no sooner come in that half of them were out in the back yard. They cut down my aerial and started whipping each other with the wire.
I couldn’t bare to watch anymore. Luckily, we were ready to leave. I went out of the house and climbed into the cab of the truck. Dad soon joined me, and we drove away.
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