Oh, the humiliation of it all

My mother made me wear this hat. I felt like a fool but was mercifully unaware that the hat was the least of my fashion problems. Look at those skinny legs sticking out from that square dress. No wonder I didn't have any friends. But, the beautiful woodwork on the porch absolutely makes the picture. To the right, behind me is the window out of which we used to dump the universally hated canned ravioli. There was a cool narrow staircase that led from the kitchen to the upstairs. The house had crystal doorknobs and a mirror in the bathroom by the front door that enabled one to see out into the hall while in the bathroom. A two-way mirror, I guess it's called. Whenever we talked about this house, Mom would tell me how guilty she felt that she allowed (or more likely, gave up trying to prevent) us from going into the attic to play with toys that belonged to the owner's children. I remember the smell of the detached garage. It was old and musty and damp. One of my brothers taught me to ride my bike on the sidewalk in front of the house; there was a small, old-timey white framed corner grocery store down the street named White's; we walked to school. I love this house but was too young to remember much. I'd love it if someone could fill me in on the details. When Mom died, I sent thank you notes to people who'd sent sympathy cards. I got an answer to a couple of my notes and one was from a man who said he'd lived across the street from us while we lived in this house. When Jessica got married in Newport, someone arranged for family members to visit and look around the house. We have a couple of pictures but the quality is poor.
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