October 8: Model Number 3

I grew up in a neighborhood of about fifty homes built by the same construction company. That means that there were three or four different models for my parents to choose from when selecting a lot. It also meant I had a few friends with the same house as me and sometimes one friend would live in the same designed house as another. My friend Jason lived in the same model as me, but my friend Shawn grew up in a house exactly like Brett's.

This weekend, I'm dog sitting for my next door neighbor. I don't know if I was offered the prestigious position because my mom let slip the fact that I quit my job to come home for a month and a half and I wouldn't be making any money or if my uncanny ability to take a dog to the lawn to piddle precedes me. Either way, I am now in possession of a garage door opener and a very classified house alarm code.

Upon entering the abode last night for my first shift, I was treated to the nostalgic discovery of another familiar model. I walked through the garage and into the same laundry room that my childhood friends Shawn and Brett know so well. The house, of course, was decorated quite differently, but it was still a trip to walk past the family room bar and wine cellar that I remember from my youth. From the outside, my house looks very similar to my next door neighbor's, but not having to walk down two steps from the hallway into the living room feels odd.

As the small Shih Tzu did her thing on the recently mowed back yard lawn, I couldn't help but walk through the house and let memories flood my mind. Memories of waking up on a Saturday morning after a sleepover to play an 8-bit Nintendo system in what seemed miles away from my home. Memories of lying in the dark talking about all of the cute third grade girls. I remembered little things like seeing a Vanilla Ice cassette tape sitting on a couch and the unfamiliar, yet comforting, scents of a different home.

I still have a day and a half left of feeding the gray-haired animal and letting it out to go potty. The work is minimal, but the memories are what makes the job a joy. The memories of sleep overs after Little League games and birthday parties catered by Little Caesars. I'm looking forward to being reminded of eating store-bought, miniature chocolate donuts tomorrow night when I walk through my neighbor's kitchen to fill the small silver dish with Kibble. I haven't been in another house in this neighborhood in more than ten years and this small chore is reminding me of a different life where things were more laid back and simple. It's nice.