The Breadcrumbs Project: My Childhood Bedroom
A guest post from Amanda Konopacki
I am so pleased to share the next installment of The Breadcrumbs Project series with a guest post from Amanda Konopacki. I was so drawn to her piece, especially after my summer of visiting my former childhood homes. When we imagine the homes in which we grew up, our bedrooms stand out as being even more significant, more special. Amanda paints such a vivid picture of her childhood bedroom, and the details of record players and mix tapes gave me pangs of nostalgia. I think many of us at the midlife mark will recognize ourselves in the description of Amanda’s old bedroom.
My childhood bedroom lived at the top of an unnaturally steep staircase, probably characteristic of the time it was built, 1776, but definitely out of code by today’s standards. It was charming and eccentric, with odd shaped closets and walls that varied in height and shape, accommodating the cathedral ceiling and quirky layout. The thick, dark wood beams that traversed the ceiling were anything but smooth and even. Riddled with dents and grooves and whittled spikes that stuck out here and there, they told a story of hard manual labor. I used to stare at them from my bed and imagine just how hard it would be to carve these out with a single ax, which is how I imagined they did it back then.
The walls were painted in a traditional “it’s a girl” pale pink, to contrast with my brother's traditionally blue room. The floors were covered in pale turquoise carpeting. It was the kind of carpet one would have installed wall-to-wall, complete with the yellowy foam pad underneath. My parents had chosen to use it like a rug, cutting it to fit the room's odd dimensions, and leaving about a two inch gap between the ragged edges and the wall. This allowed the dark wood floors underneath to peek out, happy their charm had not been completely erased.
A chunky wall, where I often hung large posters of Disney movies or whimsical ocean scenes, jutted into the center of the room, creating a space in the back, hidden from the doorway and any meddling passersby. This was my favorite place to hide. I even moved the mattress of my full sized bed to this area at some point. Probably as a teenager, desperate for privacy, all barricades welcome.
The one window, tall and narrow, centered on the triangular wall at the back of the room, let in a surprising amount of light. On sunny days I would revel in the bright, cheerful vibe, sitting in the spots where the sun landed on the floor, soaking in the warmth as I read my books, scribbled in my journal, or daydreamed to music. I remember playing records on my Fisher Price record player. . . Mickey’s Splashdance, Cyndi Lauper, Billy Joel. Later I would sit urgently in front of my boombox as the Top 40 countdown played, cassette tape loaded, finger hovering over the record button, ready to strike as soon as the DJ stopped talking over my favorite songs. It’s crazy to think this is how we made mix tapes back then.
Sometimes I would just gaze out the window, staring out at the rolling hills of grass, streams and centuries old stone walls dividing the vastness into territories. I had many adventures out there.
I had the pleasure of visiting my childhood home this past summer. It had been nearly a decade since I last saw it. Excited to show my young daughters where mommy spent her time growing up, we made our way up the impossibly steep stairs and entered a museum of my past. The walls were still pink, faded and blemished with holes and peeled paint where I had repeatedly hung posters and art to the walls, tore them down, and replaced them with my new obsessions. The same pale turquoise carpet, now stained and worn, curled at the corners, as if asking to be lifted and removed. A small rocking chair cradled a few of my old dolls, and some of my favorite stuffed animals hid in the back closet. The nostalgia was strong as I sat in a sun spot on the floor, flashes of my childhood rotating through my mind like one of those old picture viewer toys.
My daughter called for an escort down the steep stairs and I snapped back to the present. I glanced around once more. . . the only thing new was the updated bedding and plethora of pillows. My mom often sleeps in here now to escape the incessant snoring of my father. I chuckled that it hadn’t changed in 45 years, but secretly I was happily sentimental about that. I did wonder though, after all this time, and all the updates they had done to the rest of the house, why my room had remained meticulously untouched.
Amanda Konopacki grew up in New Hampshire and moved to Southern California after college where she has continued to curate her life. She spent her early career working as a molecular biologist and dancer before taking time off to focus on raising a family. Writing has been a treasured hobby that has ebbed and flowed throughout her life, and one that she has recently come back to exploring through personal narrative and poetry. When she’s not writing, she can still be found on the dance floor, out running the trails, spending time with her husband and two daughters or reading a good book.
Are you interested in sharing a story about your childhood home for the Breadcrumbs Project series? Email me at steph.iz @ hotmail.com