Spicy New Mexico sun,
Stucco childhood home.
Though I was born in Texas, my dad served as a pastor in New Mexico for about five years. It was here, in a tiny little desert town only thirty minutes from the Mexican border, that I did much of my growing up.
The home itself was fashioned out of cream-colored stucco with dark burgundy trim. Inside, the kitchen window looked out on the Florida Mountains (pronounced Flor-ee-da), and after we moved away I found that it was the mountains that I missed the most. My mother loved that the garage had been converted into a massive room, which she was thrilled to convert into a School Room for us to do our homeschool lessons in. She always loved that room, in spite of its burnt orange carpet and lack of insulation!
Outside we transformed half the back yard into a garden, where we spent hours pulling weeds and harvesting the freshest squash and juiciest beefsteak tomatoes I’ve ever tasted. We loved to play in that yard, and spent hours performing gymnastic feats on our metal swingset and clambering up into our homemade tree house (a clever contraption made of an old shed door and a bright blue tarp, which my dad eventually had to tear down when the city told him it had officially become a public eyesore!). This was also where our family dog, Cinnamon, lived, until the day we had to move away and give Cinnamon to a Spanish speaking family. Her name became Canella (Spanish for Cinnamon), and I’ll never forget the way she licked me comfortingly as I cried on her neck one last time, or the look in her eyes as they pulled out of the driveway and she realized we weren’t coming with her.
Out in the desert, with blazing hot afternoons and frigid cold evenings, it was a wonderful place. A stark, beautiful place.
It was home.
Writing 101 Day 11 Challenge: Tell us about the home you lived in when you were 12.