The Pink House

We moved to Springfield, Missouri, in the spring of 1985. After a few weeks, Dad and Mom found a place for us to live. The house was a converted garage into a bright pink townhouse, sort of like Pepto Bismol. Our furnishings were pretty simple. Josiah and I slept in the same room. Mom constructed a dresser out of cardboard boxes, which seemed to work well. Erika had her room, though I was known to crawl into bed with her when nasty thunderstorms came rumbling through.

While Dad was busy with school and work, Mom did her best to care for the three kids. She constantly warned us about what we should not do so we would not get hurt. Funny enough, though, Erika and I would get into those exact situations, but for some reason, I was always the one getting hurt.

Two different incidents stand out the most for me. The first involved roller skates and the front porch. Mom insisted that we didn't skate on the front porch as ‘someone would get hurt.’ Erika had the idea that we should just try it once (because all the kids were doing it). The plan unfolded that I would put on the skates, and she would ensure I didn't get hurt. Sure enough, Nate and Skates are like oil and water together; so much for the aspirations of competing at the '88 Olympics up in Calgary. The next thing I knew, my head was stuck between metal spindles, and after getting unstuck (and the skates taken off), I was heading to the doctor's office for stitches. Little did I know that I would be in need of stitches multiple times after this. 

The second incident involved my favorite bike that I was learning to ride on and riding double. Now if memory serves me correctly, my sister would argue otherwise; my loving sister insisted that she drive the bike, and I would ride double on the back. Off we went, racing down the middle of the street, when suddenly, my foot slipped and became wedged between the frame and tire, though my sister has a differing account for the situation. Sure enough, I fulfilled my mother’s warning to her immense embarrassment. There I lay in the middle of the street, wailing like a dying zebra. Neighbors began to peek out of their houses as I was the buzz of the neighborhood. Everyone began to hear the wail of the sirens in the distance. Before long, an ambulance and fire truck pulled up. The firefighters, being extremely concerned with the situation and precious seconds ticking away, decided that to save my leg and foot, they would need to use the jaws of life.  Now you have to understand that really all I needed was a little soap, and the leg/ foot would have slid out. After I had emerged freed from the tyrannical grip of the bike, my mother took my hand, and we made our way back to the house. Yes, amazingly enough, I could walk. It must have been a miracle. One of the local kids took it upon himself to bring my mangled bike back. At one point, he tried to ride it and then said, ‘Yep, it’s broken.’ 

Another moment that comes to mind while thinking about the Pink House is experimenting with prescription-grade Dimetapp. Being the adventurous kid that I was, I decided that I should probably begin to explore the use of medicines. I mean, who knows, maybe I would become a pharmacist or something, with extreme emphasis on the latter. The medicine that I really wanted to explore was Dimetapp. My mother thought that the best place to keep the medicine was in the top cupboard in the kitchen; that way, it would be out of reach. Surprisingly enough, it was not.  Not only was it not out of reach, but it was also very easy for me to get the kid-proof cap off. Before you knew it, I had done a couple of shots of that good stuff, may have been more than half the bottle, and then headed to the couch to chill. Well, the biggest issue with this was that my ‘chilling’ was completely out of the norm, and my mother noticed. Very quickly, she called poison control and had a conversation regarding her stoned-out 5-year-old. It was conveyed to her that I would be fine. I would just be ‘laid back’ for a little while. Hey, I couldn't help it, but I really liked all the 'scrunched up face' stickers that were stuck to everything.

And so, this was just a glimpse into the early years of my life. Oh, the stories that have not been told yet; teaching my brother how to throw rocks and ending up being stuck, sitting on a cactus. The art of nail walking (aka balancing on a single nail). The fascination of watching napkins burn. Taking the hose out of the water bed to see how it filled. Gunpowder and sparklers. On and on they go, but a lass, those are stories for another day and another time.

'“Siblings: children of the same parents, each of whom is perfectly normal until they get together.” –Sam Levenson