By B. L. Walker

When nighttime dreams take me home, it’s always to a Victorian Painted Lady in a small town in Western Pennsylvania. I lived in that three-story gingerbread charmer, resplendent with lemon yellow and pale blue goo-gaws, for 15 fabulous years.

On sticky summer evenings, you’d find Momma, her parents, assorted uncles and aunts, and me chilling out on a squeaky glider, or in brown wicker rockers on the wrap-around front porch. Most likely, we’d be sipping iced tea, lemonade, or maybe a frothy Rolling Rock beer.

The front door was a humdinger. You had to slam your hip a couple times against that great oak slab to open it. Then you’d sort of stumble into the front hallway with its elegant apple wood panels reminiscent of storybook pictures of King Arthur’s castle. Here’s where we hung coats, or checked our makeup in the oval mirror over a marble-topped table, or talked for hours on the phone with a simple number: 2442-J.

Overstuffed furniture waited to be sat upon in the living room to the hall’s right. Every May and October, the women wrestled with slipcover changes on the fat-armed chairs and sofa—from a slippery chintz fabric in peony and poppy pattern to a solid green corduroy. The fall changeover propelled us into a holiday mood and got us arguing about how tall the Christmas tree for the front window should be.

We sprawled in that cozy room on Sunday evenings listening to Jack Benny and the Lux Radio Theater. Under protest, I spent hours practicing on the out-of-tune upright piano in the only corner without a window preparing for my Saturday morning lesson.

Women always needed help opening the solid mahogany sliding doors that separated the living room from the dining room. On holidays and birthdays, we sat at the round claw-foot table under a shining crystal chandelier, making up stories about hunt scenes in that square room’s wallpaper. The aroma of turkeys, hams, cakes or pies wafting from the adjoining kitchen caused us to salivate.

Exploring the contents of assorted teapots and cups stored in the musty-smelling china closet occupied otherwise boring childhood hours. Over and over, I’d review dozens of wrinkled snapshots, stubby pencils with no points or erasers, dried-up rubber bands, packs of needles, and other mundane objects. On rainy days, the cob-webbed attic offered a similar fascination. I didn’t mess with the basement 'cause a homemade root beer bottle might explode and startle me into nearly wetting myself.

Colored light from an arc-shaped stained glass window made interesting patterns on the stairway to upstairs. I liked sitting there in the warmth reading trashy novels.

Momma and I shared the largest of the four connecting bedrooms on the second floor. Ours was in the front of the house overlooking Penn Avenue. The pure light pouring into our window offered a perfect place for a kid to study and to cheer while listening to KDKA-radio broadcast our beloved Pittsburgh Pirates games. Several seasons, the Bucs walloped their way to win the World Series.

Each evening when the clock chimed six, we gathered around the oblong kitchen table on pastel chairs of blue, green, pink, yellow, lavender and peach to wolf down a meat and potatoes meal and catch up with each other’s day. Washing dishes has always given me a pleasant sense of instant accomplishment. Nobody ever argued that that pleasure should be denied me. As they dripped dry, I’d join the others on our side lawn for a game of croquet or badminton till the lightning bugs came out and we moved onto the porch. These were rich years in which to grow up. Life felt blissfully uncomplicated, safe.

I don’t want to go back there now. It’s changed. My childhood memories are too precious to disrupt. But in today’s world, when I pass a Painted Lady, I smile, thankfully remembering those happy years. And... there’s always the chance that I’ll dream about my special Lady tonight.

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