First apartment

 I was twenty-one when I finished my time in the Navy. I used some of my savings to rent an apartment in my hometown. I can still picture every part of that place.

My apartment was on the second floor of an old two-story house built around 1900. The twelve narrow wooden steps made getting furniture upstairs difficult. When I opened the door, I admired the beautiful woodwork everywhere. The floors, walls, and ceiling were all made from handcrafted wood, and I wondered how long the craftsmen took to create such beauty.

Like many homes from that time, the house had many windows that allowed natural light to fill each room. The living room had a cluster of six windows. that were opened with a rope and pulley system. Every room had a radiator for heating, and I could hear the steam hissing on cold winter days.

The bathroom was small, featuring an eagle claw tub that was big enough for me to relax in, with a beveled mirror above the sink. Besides the kitchen, it was the only room with black and white square tiles on the floor.

I had one bedroom, which was all I needed. If I had guests, I'd turn the couch into a bed, but it wasn't very comfortable since some springs were broken.

The kitchen was small, accommodating only a small fridge, a gas stove, and a sink. There were no microwaves back then, so I used the stove and oven every day. They also provided heat on cold days when the radiators couldn't keep up. My favorite room, though, was the living room.

The living room was larger than the other rooms, almost as if the builders wanted to show off their skills. It had a high ceiling and a wood-burning fireplace as the main feature. The fireplace had fieldstones from the area and an oak mantel where I displayed family photos and souvenirs from my Navy travels. The six windows let in plenty of light, and every sunset through those windows filled the room with bright orange and pink colors, creating a perfect end to the day.

I had very little furniture: a bed, a dresser, an easy chair, and that uncomfortable couch. I found an old coffee table on the curb, saved it from being thrown away, and repaired a broken leg. I decided to turn it into a candle table, placing a new candle on top of the old one as each burned out. Over time, a pile of wax grew on the table. The light from the candles and the fire in the fireplace created lovely shadows in the room.

During that time, I wrote a lot. The beautiful woodwork and shadows inspired ideas for my stories. The smell of burning wood and the sound of crackling fire filled my senses, and words flowed from my pen easily.

I loved everything about my first apartment. I believe that it was there that I discovered my path to becoming a storyteller. Years later, during a visit home, I drove by the old house. To my surprise, it was still standing, though it looked worn down. As I sat there, a young couple with a baby came out of the apartment. I smiled, wondering if they felt the same wonder I had felt, surrounded by the beautiful woodwork, six windows, and eagle claw bathtub. I thought about whether they sat by the fireplace on cold nights, listening to the steam from the radiators. Or maybe to them, it was just an apartment with twelve hard stairs to climb slowly, trying not to wake the baby.

As I drove away, I took every piece of that old house with me. It will always be a part of who I was and who I wanted to be—a storyteller.  

Mike 2025