My Home

I grew up in a house that had quite a history—it was built back in the 1840s, around the time when Abraham Lincoln was still around. Originally, it was the first church in town before being converted into a hotel. The house itself was a modest, single-story building with a basement, and the ceiling down there was made from whole trees, bark still intact. The house even had its own well, but because of the coal mining in the area, the ground had shifted, contaminating the water supply. Drinking it was out of the question, so we had these tanks in the basement that filtered the water just enough to shower with.

I remember as a child, staring at the water that came up from the well—it was this murky brown color, like burnt coffee with a hint of red, loaded with lead, iron, and bacteria. My dad would mix up some caustic soda in a tub to try and filter it better. It was a challenge, especially since our neighbors’ wells would dry up during the summer. I’d help one of them haul water from a fresh spring in the woods, lugging jugs back and forth. I was about eleven then. There was a time when our house lost water altogether, and my dad had to dig up the well. I helped him pull it out, and we went days without water, working late into the night to fix it.

Looking back, I realize why I drank so much soda as a kid—it was the only safe thing to drink. By the time I was ten, most of my teeth were filled with cavities, likely from a mix of the bad water and too much soda. Even now, I can’t bring myself to drink it. The taste and smell take me right back to those memories, and it’s like my body just rejects it. People often talk about soda as a happy childhood memory, but for me, it’s anything but.

Some people have this nostalgia for their childhood home, but I can’t say the same. I don’t miss it. While there were good moments, they’re overshadowed by the tough ones. But I suppose that’s life, isn’t it? The good and the bad all mixed together.