It was July of 1967. I was 12 years old. We lived in a two story house on the north side of Sheboygan. My family consisted of Daddy, Mama and the six of us kids. I was the oldest. After me came Mary, who would be 11 in August. Tammy turned eight in the spring. The boys had their birthdays at the end of the month. Jerry would be seven, Michael, three and Patrick, the baby was almost 2.
The house was a pretty yellow and so much bigger than the last one we lived in. I didn’t care about any of that. Who needs a big house when all that really mattered was that we left our old neighborhood and all of our friends. I was mad for a short while.
My new school was a block away. I quickly made new friends, but I could also jump on my bike and ride back to the other side of town in 20 minutes.
My sister Mary and I shared a room upstairs. All the kids were up there except Patrick who had his crib in a room downstairs. My parent’s bedroom was also on the first floor, next to the living room, at the front of the house. It was the room Daddy died in.
Sunday, July 30 1967. It was a day I will never forget. My brother, Michaels’, third birthday. Daddy had one of his headaches and wanted to lie down before church. He died suddenly during that nap of a cerebral aneurysm. He was 33 years old. Mom had just turned 30.
We moved back to the south side shortly after that.
This was for Writing 101, Day 11. Where did you live when you were 12. The twist is to pay attention to the sentence length.