Health and appearance of Michael Jackson and child sexual abuse accusations against Michael Jackson "Scream" is a song primarily directed at the tabloid press.
I moved quite a bit and my childhood homes are spread around five states, so I chose my favorite— our home in Wisconsin. Even my first impressions recall the outdoors: When we first moved in, the yard was nearly new and uncultivated and the weeds had been left to grow.
Nearly an acre and a half of weeds above my head, some taller than my parents! The driveway, once paved, was perfect for roller skating not blading! And then there was the Rock Pile.
Because that area of WI had been near the border of glacier coverage during the ice age, the ground was very full of what we called fieldstones— rocks of all sizes worn perfectly smooth by being dragged under the ice. Our neighborhood had been plotted on former farming fields, and in our yard happened to be the spot where four fields had joined together.
There were a few small trees there and, dumped by farmers as the tried to plow the land, a huge pile of fieldstones, at least 10 feet in diameter, and probably 5 feet high in the center when we first moved in.
I hollowed it out in the center, studied the rocks, climbed the tree… it was my little kingdom. Next to it was a slight ridge in the yard, sitting at such an angle to the wind usually, that we always had dramatic snow drifts there in the winter. One year it was twelve feet high! I remember walking out to our drifts, sinking into the snow hip-deep with each step at times, and digging tunnels through the snow.
It never occured to me that I could be in some trouble if it ever collapsed on me. The gravelly roads of the neighborhood were in the shape of a horseshoe, with a few cul de sacs splitting off here and there, and just one way in or out of the neighborhood.
Perfect for bike riding.
In the center was a little park, ball diamond and, in wet years, a little skating pond. Surrounding the neighborhood were woods, fields, a country highway, another similar neighborhood, a cemetery and a dairy farm.
So much to explore. My parents had no idea where I was most of the time! Just a few miles away there were several lakes, host to swimming in the summer and skating next to whole fishing villages out on the ice in winter.
And the state forest was nearby, too, with trails to hike among evergreen trees, where the needles formed a perfect carpet to walk on noiselessly in peaceful beauty.
What makes me sad is that my city children have almost none of such things as these to enjoy. My childhood home It is past a.m. I am sitting on the terrace of my home watching the sunrise.
The sun, almost a strange, a dark shade of orange semicircle, peeped itself over the top of the top of river Ganges, like a restless child at a window. When my Dad was growing up he had one jumper each winter. One. Total. He remembers how vigilantly he cared for his jumper. If the elbows got holes in them my Grandma patched them back together.
Since My Childhood Home is completely free to use (no catches here!), all we ask is that you help us by sharing.
Without your support (and excitement), we wouldn't get the traffic we need to sustain the functionality found here. My idea is, dreaming of childhood home is a referral to your childhood environment.
It can happen for various reasons - nostalgia and stresses in current life. Frequently, a person undergoing severe stress in life (in various degrees) reverts to his childhood/infancy self.
Picture of my childhood home taken from the bottom of the driveway I lived nearly my entire childhood in the same house. It was a large brown sprawling single story house, a former farm with a large dog kennel in the back. If you play that game where you pick your porn-star moniker by using the name of the street of your first childhood home as your first name and your real middle name as your last, I’d be Clark Samuels.