The New Room

Why, where or exactly when, I do not know.  But at some point my parents decided to expand our Angus Street house.  I have pretty much no memory of the porch which was over the garage. I do remember the construction to enclose it into a room and excitement that followed.

Thus was born “the new room.”   A decade later, the space was still called “the new room.”  I’m certain that the people who now live there and paid a heck of a lot more than the $10,000 my mother paid using her widow’s insurance from the death of her first husband, would not be calling that space the “new room.”  Everything about that house is now old. But for my family, it was always the “new room.”

Whether my dad had building permits, which I highly doubt, don’t know.  But what I remember was the new beams and sitting astride them.  Our neighbors, Cece and Bernice, didn’t think it was safe.  But they also didn’t think my dad should be feeding us those yellow hot chilies in a jar.  Neither had lasting a lasting negative impact.

Once the porch was enclosed into a room, the floor was laid.  Cork.  Then my dad built bookshelves and electrical outlets.  On one side of the room the shelves housed the World Book Encyclopedia and all the National Geographics that we’d ever received.  On the other side of the opening, were all of my parents’ record albums.  Pattie Page, Leonard Bernstein, Mike Nichols and Elaine May, Smetana, Ferde Grove, Harry Belafonte and more. There was also an album by a woman who specialized in singing off key for humor’s sake.  I was told that this was something that was quite difficult.

 These were the days of Sing Along with Mitch.  Folk music was about to hit its acme.

My father had each album ordered and labeled. This is also where my parents’ guitars and banjo were stored.

Then my parents bought an L-shaped couch.  I guess it was pretty modern for the time.  It had some odd plastic cover that always felt cold. White with colored piping.  The backrest came off, making the seat into a bed.  On the opposite side of the room was a business-like desk and chair. 

To separate the living room from the “new room” my parents put up a sliding, accordion door that we rarely used.  The only time I can remember using it was when a young man came to door.  I had worked with him and we’d gone out on one date.  Smitten, I was not.  He arrived unannounced and upon seeing him coming up the stairs to the front door, I solicited my sister.  Her job was to answer the door and say I wasn’t home.  My job was to escape quickly to the “new room," shut the accordion door and hide.  Unfortunately, he decided to wait a while for me to “come home.”  I was inches away from him and was worried that he could see my feet under the door.  Needless to say, we never went out again.

Many years later, a boyfriend came to stay during the holidays.  My mother didn’t like him—and in the long run neither did I.  But he was put on the cold, white plastic couch.  The only good thing my mother could find to say about him was that he made his bed and returned the backrest to the couch.

I have learned that making the bed is not all that important.