That House on West Street (By Hendrix Wilson)

By: Hendrix Wilson – My daughter told me that if I had been born in her generation, that I would be a superstar on Instagram. I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know what an Instagram was, or how to have one delivered, only to find out that it’s a means to sharing the pictures you take. I get the impression that Cori (daughter) said this because of my volumes of photo albums that I keep, and how I’ll spend hours looking through them on a rainy day.

On my last stroll through memory lane, Cori found the first picture that we ever took in the house we shared on West Street. It was visually jarring to see how young and baby faced we all were. If I’m not mistaken, the picture was taken right after we moved everything in and right before we were completely unpacked. I can tell you that I’ve tried (in vain) to write songs about how absolutely hopeful that we all felt at that moment; Anthony (who will still answer to Antics, but prefers I not call him that in front of his child) went around the house, absolutely amazed at the new life he was about to lead. The house was a dump, but it was a new dump to him, and new didn’t happen to him very often. My heart soared for him, and for every step his life has taken since.

That picture was absolutely amazing, it actually reminded me of every room of that house. In that one picture, I could see the ashtray that Lori kept on her windowsill, still not entirely convinced that her mother wouldn’t bust her for smoking somehow. I can still remember scraping my elbow against the strike plate of the door latch while trying to move Danny’s bed into his room, and lying on my back in the living room as Antics tried to convince me (yet again) that “Dark Side of the Moon” was one of the greatest albums ever. In that picture, I remembered every time we cried together; how I’d come home completely exhausted from working terrible hours at a crappy job just to finance a dead-end lifestyle.

That home was amazing, and I maintain the stance that everyone should live in one just like it. I’m not saying to go out and rent the largest crap-castle that you can find, but find one that will always kindle memories of the time of your lives. I know that I can’t go back to that house on West Street; I guess it’s good that I took all of those pictures when I was young.

If you’d like to know more about Hendrix Wilson, the house he’s writing about, or the people that he’s mentioned then pick up “Broken Promise Records” by A.P. Miller at The book is available in Paperback and Kindle formats!

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