This evening I was thinking about when the #1 son was a young 'un. Either a toddler, or right after he started school. Every time we drove into town, he had to see a special house. To him, it was special. To me, it was a run-down rat-trap with a broken window.
The house was on the main road, on our left, just as we passed the city limits. It was probably the third house in. Just past the house that Farmer H and his older boys walked to when they ran out of gas one time, where the owner said they were welcome to come in, but he didn't have a phone for them to call anybody. And next door to the house that had goats running around in the side yard, with a dog to herd them. And just before the house that had a display of woodworking projects in the yard for sale, the most notable being three narrow coffins around Halloween.
#1's special house was pink. Not salmon, not beige, not a faded rose. PINK. The shutters were hanging at odd angles. Paint was peeling. Some old free penny-saver papers lay rotting on the porch. But #1 loved it. He would turn his big noggin clear around until it went out of sight.
"It has to be Mimi's house, Mom! But she's never home."
Then it dawned on me why he was so fascinated with that hovel. He thought it belonged to the character Mimi on The Drew Carey Show. #1 loved Mimi. He truly believed she was the most beautiful woman in the world.