Emily Articulated: Growing up

By Emily Erickson
Reader Staff

One of the first things I did after moving to Sandpoint was enter a writing contest. I was pulled to the library by a flyer tacked to a posterboard that declared “All are Welcome.” I read a piece about moving across the country in a snowstorm, arriving in a small town nestled next to big mountains, with a long bridge leading to all the people and things that made a new place feel like it might just be a home.

Maybe compelled by the same instincts to reconnect to the feeling of hope for, and connection to, this community, I re-entered the same contest this year. I wrote about another home, another version of myself and another representation of how the places we go — and the places we stay — find a way to shape us.

“Growing Up” was written to be read aloud for the community writing contest held on March 22 by Sandpoint Writers on the Lake, in which it won first place in the adult category.

Emily Erickson. Courtesy photo.

I grew up in a house where we had the “good” cereal, but only once in a while. Mom would put down her bag just so, her eyes glittering just a little more than usual. And we’d descend like the vultures we were, our biggest bowls already in hand. We’d fling aside boxes of plain Cheerios and Grape Nuts before ripping the Cinnamon Toast Crunch free, the plastic bag from its box in an instant. It’d be gone by morning.

I grew up in a house with a layer of pet hair on every surface, in every blanket shaken out like snow falling on a carpet of white. Dogs and cats didn’t have their own beds because our beds were their beds; our bodies contorted around theirs like back pain didn’t exist, like sleep was secondary to the comfort of their warm bodies curled next to ours. Nose prints clouded every window and slobber trails wound from water bowls to the kitchen table and back again. We’d wipe them up with a paper towel.

I grew up in a house where art projects were never thrown away, where construction paper turkeys spilled out of clear plastic bins and marker drawings were carefully labeled with names and ages. Paint trays stayed open all day long, the colors mottled together into various shades of crusty brown — until water was added and revealed the true hue beneath the mess. People were purple and dogs were orange and the sun was green, but we knew our pictures would hang on the fridge, nonetheless. We’d present them with magnets already in hand.

I grew up in a house that was always unfinished. Dad’s tools sat next to holes in walls like permanent fixtures and electrical cords swung from exposed rafters like snakes; our ceiling a jungle canopy — dangerous and wild. We shouted “Demo Day!” like others might cry “Christmas!” brandishing hammers behind too-big safety goggles and paper masks just big enough to leave behind drywall mustaches and dust-crusted foreheads. New projects began before old ones were finished. We never did see the last layer of paint dry.

I grew up in a house where fights were always loud, where voices had to carry to be heard, where tempers were hot things, never simmering too long before erupting. Jabs were added into conversations like Alka-Seltzer tabs, designed to create a reaction, to infiltrate the calm. But, I also grew up in a house with room to find quiet. Where trees could be climbed or bikes could be hopped on or forts could be made — “No Entry” signs hung like the flip-side of a surrender flag. I’d write in red and tack it to my door before the marker even set. My peace was personal, but it held.

I left the house I grew up in young, too full of restlessness to stay — still a child, but without any childhood left. I was ready to leave a mark, a splash, a stain on wherever I was going — everywhere and nowhere unfurling before me. But wherever I went (wherever I go), the house I grew up in remains with me — cinnamon and sugar clinging to my fingertips, pet hair woven into my sweater, paint still wet on my skin and scaffolding around my ribcage, bracing me for all I’ll build next. 

The house I grew up in is gone. But I’m still here, somewhat grown up. Somehow, always, with more growing up left to do.

Emily Erickson is a writer and business owner with an affinity for black coffee and playing in the mountains. Connect with her online at www.bigbluehat.studio.