Thanks so much to those who participated in the last writing exercise competition. First place went to a writer who would rather remain anonymous, so you’ll have to take it from me that her entry was very nice. Second place went to Jean Lohmann of New Jersey. I was touched by Jean’s writing and I’m including her story below. (The exercise was to write about a place important to you growing up.)

The next writing exercise competition is as follows:

Start a story with these words: Where were you last night?

You can send the entries in to susan@susanjbreen.com. Winners will receive free autographed copies of my book and finalists will receive book marks. Deadline is April 30, 2009.

Moving Day

By Jean Lohmann

It was late November. Crimson leaves had fallen, and the turkeys and their leftovers were gone. The sky was a dirty gray, sprinkling occasional raindrops, and the chill of the late afternoon ran a shiver through me.

We were moving tonight. After eight years in the house, a chapter of my life seemed to have ended, at least the one on my teenage years had. I guess I should have been excited about the uncertain future and upcoming venture of moving to a new home. All I could focus on was being here right now in my room. Our family had moved a few times, but this was the house I felt most attached to, the one we could really call “home”. This was the one my sisters and I had many talks in, taking turns of whose bedroom should be the setting for these venting sessions. This was the house where we welcomed annual visiting exchange students for a weekend, rescued a turtle from our dachshund’s curious mouth, and pretended we were actually being considered to replace Diana Ross and the Supremes at some future date. This was the house that Barbara chose glue over tape to affix posters on her bedroom walls, the dishwasher overflowed on numerous occasions, and boys who came to ‘call’ for us were greeted in the front room.

Mom called up the stairs, “Barbara? Are you all packed and ready?” My oldest sister, who would never be ready for anything on time yelled down, “Almost”. I thought about her one word answer. Was I almost ready? Was I ready at all? And ready for what?

My parents had moved to this tree lined suburban street in the 70’s because they had heard how good the schools were. The houses were old, Dutch Colonials set back off the road, reminding one of a colonial village of long ago. The maples and oaks that lined the street we lived on leaned a bit toward the road making a beautiful effect when the snow was heavy upon them.

We are a close family. We camp together many summers, having the benefit of having both parents in the teaching profession and glorious long summer days off. We watch television as a group, and go out to dinner on Fridays. We are a family of routines. Grocery shopping always takes place on Saturdays, Sunday dinner is served in the dining room, and the television news regularly watched at specific times of day.

I’ll never forget the day we’d discussed moving here after my parents had looked at several other possibilities. “Dad, do you think I’ll be able to have my own room?” I’d asked anxiously. This seemed to be most important to me in a home search. I’d been sharing a bedroom with my sister, Gail, for so long now that the dream of having a space of my own had become a major goal in life. Space was always an issue so we had to share a dresser, creating the predicament of boundaries to keep the peace. “I think we can find a spot for the Bean”, my father had answered, using his favorite nickname for me.

I didn’t know at the time that my parents had already made a decision about this house and that it had a small fourth bedroom for me. What a great surprise I had the day we moved in! I climbed the stairs, two at a time, eager to see our room. My face lit up as I realized the small room, which looked as if it had been a child’s nursery, was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. It had no closet; three windows, the furniture barely fit and the door didn’t close properly. I didn’t care, it was mine!

Of course, I immediately closed the door, anxious to try out a new idea I had only read about in teen magazines – “privacy”! Already practicing in my head how I would go about telling siblings to get out of my room, I reached for the door handle and discovered the most beautiful and curious feature of my new space, a glass doorknob. Within the glass was a pink plastic rose. I had never seen such a treasure! Later, I would complement my space with a huge hanging paper flower from the ceiling and an orange shag rug. Still they paled in comparison to that doorknob.

Now, years later, I’d packed the last of the photos hanging on that door. I looked over my boxes. A poster of Snoopy dancing with the bubble letters “Feelin’ Groovy” on it, a photo of my best friend, Brenda who had moved to Chicago in sixth grade. We were wearing matching nightgowns and smiles. How do you throw things out that mean so much? I noticed that my boxes were fuller than anyone else’s. I wondered if these boxed items would always make me feel protective like this? Somehow I couldn’t picture myself at forty, cooking dinner for my family, while Snoopy danced on my wall.

I knew there must be a way to bring a part of this feeling away with me. I sat on the edge of the now bare bed and thought. I cried a little, unsure of what I was feeling. I then realized what I needed to do. “Come on down, Jeannie,” Dad called. “We’re ordering a pizza and leaving soon” “I’ll be right there, give me a minute!” I yelled back, impatient as always. Give me more time, I thought. I love this house.

I sat on the floor and found some forgotten homework paper, a rare piece that hadn’t been scribbled on. I started to write:

“To the person who takes my bedroom…” I crossed it out – no one was taking anything, I thought. This sounds criminal. I tried again:

“To the person who lives here next:

I hope you enjoy this room as much as I have. I hope you notice the beautiful maple tree that turns yellow and can only be seen full view from this window. I hope you put your bed here, against this wall like I did so you can “watch” the hallway light announce everyone’s bedtimes. I hope you like the ladybug nest that seems to be in this window every summer, allowing tiny freckled visitors through the hole in the screen. I hope this will be a place you can come up to and think about things – a place where no one sees you cry, and you can dream all you want to behind this door.”

I finished the letter and left it on the windowsill. Who knows who would find it? I didn’t really want to imagine who would be in this room after me. I’d be disappointed if it was a baby or an older woman sewing curtains, or worse yet, a boy.

I left the room and went downstairs for pizza, sliding along the banister one last time. “Don’t break that, it’s not ours anymore”, my mother said with a smile. We ate, savoring Renato’s perfect crust and flavor. It was time to go. Dad stayed behind for the moving truck and Mom loaded us in the station wagon, each of us toting our personal possessions. I climbed into the back seat and promptly fell asleep, a habit that I seemed to have been born with. In my last moments of memory before dozing, I pictured my room one last time, my head resting on the last box I’d taken along with me.

Some day, I’m sure I’ll be in another place that I’ll love; probably without the posters or the photos or knickknacks I’d held so dearly. I hope to find a special room for new things or maybe for a daughter of my own some day. One thing I am fairly sure of is that I’ll find a door on which I can place my beautiful rose doorknob rattling in the box beside me.