1968, 23 North Iowa, Colorado Springs, CO
The cats on the porch were feral, they lived in the vacant farm house sitting on a side street with a hanging for sale sign that never drew any lookers. Fine for me, the rent was $80 per month, I never saw the landlord, mailing the rent check. I was okayed to paint the interior as I pleased and I did. Black woodwork, carpet square flooring, red wainscot bathroom. Green kitchen with a genuine farmer’s sink, mauve walls in living room, beaded curtains separated the yellow walls of the sitting area. A single small closet in the entire house squeezed in beneath the stairs leading to the top floor that I never visited. A women’s touch covered an abandoned couch in orange burlap and fashioned curtains also of burlap. We called it the Great Pumpkin, the realization of my hippie fantasy with white cinder blocks and redwood planks and black Naugahyde cushions. A short year later I came to regretfully question my choice of abode as I found myself, alone, chasing a dream that never was. Unable to stay and enjoy, realizing my mantra – can’t wait to get there, can’t wait to leave – I began to realize I didn’t want to live Mother and Clinton’s life.
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