This was the house I remember fondly from my childhood. I lived in a lot of places. By my count we lived in nine places by the time I was eighteen. So the story I told was that my father was a bank robber and we had to move a lot. Actually, my mom liked to live in a nice house and my father liked to change jobs. But the bank robber thing stopped people from asking too many questions. They just knew I was not giving straight answers.
Three bedrooms, and a large mud room behind the garage, the house was small but well laid out. It was a brick house with a hip roof. Not cool, it’s just what the style is called. It’s special different because it’s more labor intensive to construct. We had one car garage because my father was holding down cost. My mother never let him forget his error. The green door was white and original until about a year ago. I’m surprised that the trees are not more mature. The windows are the same. And the electric meter on the right side – I used to race it around the house to see if I could go round before it spun once.
The night shot is the first view I had of the house as we got to Elkins. Fifty years plus later, I found out you can go back. It was so similar and so not.