Something in the window (originally posted 10/30/18)

I grew up in an old frame bungalow, one of countless that typified much of the city of Chicago. It was clad in pale yellow aluminum siding with a wall of fake pastel earth tone rocks in the front, and it was capped with a brown shingled roof. Nobody in their right mind would look twice at it, except my parents, when they decided to buy it in the mid 1970s (and subsequently, the next inhabitants when my mom moved us in 1996). Plain as it may have appeared, it was ground zero for my childhood, and I have mostly fond memories of living there.

 Upstairs is where my three sisters and I slept. There was one long bedroom toward the front that spanned about two-thirds the length of the house, and a small bedroom in the back, separated by a small landing at the top of the stairs. In early years, my two older sisters, Anne and Patty, shared the big room, and the small room was actually set up to be mine after I was born. For reasons unknown, I must not have taken to it because I have no recollection staying in there until my oldest sister Anne left for college in 1993.

 The big long room was set up with three twin beds close to the entrance of the room. There was a big open area that led to a single small window at the front of the house. I don’t know what it was about that window, but for a while, as a young kid, I would wake up from heart-pounding nightmares wherein I was in bed staring at the window and watching a shadow slowly pass by. It was like a monster’s head, staring head on but moving side to side. It was a recurring dream that I dreaded experiencing. I’d wake up, heart pounding so hard it sounded like giant stamping footsteps in my head. And I always imagined those were the footsteps of whatever it was that was behind the curtains, out to get me. I froze in my bed, unable to move until my heartbeat simmered down to a normal clip.

 Eventually at some point, Anne commandeered the small bedroom in the back and Patty had the big long room to herself. I slept on the floor in one of several places, including the living room and the “TV room”. For most of my childhood I did not have my own room. In fact it wasn’t until 1993, when Ann left for college, that I finally took possession of the little room upstairs that was intended to be for me originally. It was really great to have my own little slice of privacy at age 11. I could put posters on my walls, keep my pet reptiles in one place, and spend hours watching the city lights at night. I would lay down and watch the smoke stack of the Mayfair Pumping Station blinking its bright red lights until I fell asleep. Best of all, the haunting nightmares never returned in that room. There was a certain calming quality to watching the flashing red lights atop the smokestack at night. I knew they’d be there every night, bright and proud. Maybe that helped instill a sense of confidence in me, I don’t know. Whatever the case, it changed the way I perceived things forever.