I haven't lived in the house on Rosefield since I was a freshman in high school.
In 1983, when I was two, before I could talk I used to play with my mom and my dad's wallet. For some reason they let me take out all the credit cards and bang them together. I guess for the same reason people two year olds are now playing with cell phones. Whatever that is. One day the credit cards went missing and I, being the only mobile child was the usual suspect.
"Kate, where are Mommy's credit cards?"
To which I promptly walked to the pocket door in the kitchen and pointed.
My parents tried in vain to fish them all out, failing to retrieve all but a few they reordered the credit cards, the loyalty cards, and anything else I hid and considered them all lost. They expired and life moved on. I don't know if I was allowed to play with the wallets anymore.
Earlier this week the hardwood flooring company that worked on the house on Rosefield, the one that my dad works with, got a call. They gave out my mom's number and she got a call. The pocket door has been remodeled out of existence and the credit cards were found. The woman that bought the house offered to return them, an offer my parents declined, though I wish they had accepted. It is the only story of two year old Kate I know.
She also still has the door frame that marks off our heights, completely unpainted. Which is kinda weird.
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2 comments:
I didn't know what a pocket door was. I think we call it a recessed door, if we have a name at all.
We still have the door marking off the heights, and I am wondering what the next owners will make of the sudden emergence of 5-foot people in our family.
I'm not sure what a pocket door is either, but we had a hollow door made of cheap wood with a few holes in the back. My brother and I ended up dropping a few G.I. Joes down the back and immediately regretted it. When we tore down the door five years later, we were thrilled to finally get them back.
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