One of the places on Earth that I felt about most fondly was the house placed at 23 Dudley Avenue. The address still exists, and you can find it right now if you wanted, but know that the house there now has nothing to do with me. Our old house wasn’t two-storied, nor was it so boxy and sleek. Instead, it was amusingly “L” shaped, and dressed in soft, cheerful yellow panelling.
It was nearly the end of 2009’s Winter when my family and I started living in that yellow house. Especially for me, this was very exciting. We’d only just come from somewhere a couple of flights away, and for the first time in a while, we stayed at a house that was ours – as in “just for us” – meaning we were relieved of the concern of having anyone else around.
Until the Winter of 2016, the yellow house would stand comfortably in its place, and we were the last family it would ever shelter. Even if the house’s existence can now only be proven by its photos, texts, and the memories of whomever it had cared for, it still remains my favourite.
Remove its roof and you’ll see a good fraction of the house covered in wooden flooring. It was more orange than brown, and was always so dirty between each plank. They weren’t cold to touch in the Winter, and if you were running carelessly, tripped and banged your head on the floor, it wouldn’t hurt as much - at least compared to the tiles I still haven’t gotten used to now.
Normally, when I would run around the place, it would be from the lounge, to a carpeted room, the entrance from the backyard, and to the kitchen, then back into the lounge again. This is where the house’s rooms would loop, something I really admired. There is something about this organic and somewhat disorganised layout that makes a house feel more like home. Maybe the feeling comes from its uniqueness. Only once in my life have I seen a yellow house the shape of an “L”.
Upon entering this house, you’ll dismiss its walls. They aren’t special. They’re painted white, just like every house. Your house’s walls must be the same white, too.
Our entrance is just as forgettable. Small and boxy, there lies nothing but the coathanger. Behind us are the private rooms, which are better off not discussed.
Enter the house’s dining space, where three “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banners tape to its wall. The illustration we have of The Last Supper has probably been hung on there for a shorter time. What’s been on the walls of this space for the longest, however, are the charmingly unremarkable framed drawings of my brother and I. His is a drawing of our twenty-storey house next to a tree just as tall, accompanied by a dog, a cat, and our family. Mine is a mere copy.
Nearby you’ll find the house’s upright piano. We took her with us in 2016. If I can say anything about her, I always felt she sounded different from all the others. A bright sound, not so clean, and I learned recently that she had always been a semitone lower, even since living with us in the yellow house. While she was likely around before I was born, I feel like we’ve grown together like childhood friends.
Further down is the house’s living space. It’s everything you expect it to be and has almost everything we have now. A couple of couches; the corner TV. What we don’t have is the gas fireplace. We would play energetic CDs every weekday morning, and watch the flames dance. Not ordinary flames, but small circles chained together. The fireplace was also a favourite entrance for intruding mice, which was always exciting even though I knew the yellow house was the host in this relationship.
To the right of a couch, my father’s desk, and past my father’s desk, sliding doors - ones too impressive for this middle-class house. Its warm wooden frame reaches the ceiling; its patterned glass obscures the other side. And on the other side somewhere far less impressive, the place we referred to as the “play room”. You’ll find all sorts of things there. My stray pens and papers made a great slipping hazard for a certain individual if she was reckless, off of far-away shelves were books nobody read, and various stuffed-animals scattered across the carpet like a second layer. For my brother and I, the entire floor was our storytelling ground, an entire city, and the place where we played gods.
Couches were part-table most of the time; tables were part-chair some of the time. You’ll find our landline phone. I kind of miss when they were common to have around. Useful for people who always forget to charge their mobiles. Elsewhere, a laptop or two and tangled wires on one surface, then an inconveniently placed TV and an exhausted Wii console on another. This was the place where I would build entire populations, where my mind set free. Finally, the archival cupboard - four thirds of its contents now being lost to time. Occasionally, I would browse for treasures and reminisce over papers that had no use to me or that I didn’t understand. Clearly, this play room was my favourite. It was the least favourite of my mother’s.
Through the back door, you’ll see a decently-sized backyard. It’s grassy and wide, which my dog would have loved. One of my favourite things about the yellow house is how it was placed in front of a creek, so from the rusty back fence, you can have a peek over. Most days, it was dry, but by the wetter seasons, water would stream there like a river. I am saddened that I only explored it once. The yellow house also keeps a resident plum tree rooted far back of the yard. Not climbable, but a great source for jam. It was prettiest during the spring when it bloomed with delicate white flowers.
A strange feature of this space was the square of fake grass in front of the door. I never liked it. Our abandoned couches from inside moved out here too, repurposed as comfortable outdoor seats as long as they were out of the rain. Left of the plums, our chicken coop which chooks occupied for some years until they were killed somehow and scrapped on the ground. Before that traumatising event, I did enjoy their company and their free eggs. At one point, a pet rabbit of mine lived among them. It always stank.
The house’s plum was not its only tree. Past the shed and the back driveway, you’ll find our once infinite source of Golden Delicious. Most of the fruits were rotting or pecked by visiting birds, but if we were lucky, a [LOST]
And so, we’ve returned to the front yard. Look back at the yellow house for the last time. Return back to the real world and remember that it no longer exists. Even today, that house still remains my favourite. If I had the power, I would bring it back into the world.
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