Looks like “Day” edged out “Room” in a close game. But it’s day 2 of Lent, and this is the first room I have chosen to write about. It’s pictured here, in one of its designs. When I think of a living room, this is the one that often comes to mind. I’ve spent more time in others, but a decade in this one was maybe most “formative” for me growing up.

This home was the Kellams’ (and no doubt the bank’s) from around 1954-1964. Mom and Dad and their six kids spent many hours each day in this room, one of thirteen in the historic house on South Liberty Avenue. It had been built circa 1840 by Joshua Mersereau, son of a prominent family in the village’s history. The front door led to a two story hall, complete with a self-supporting winding stairway to the upstairs bedrooms. Turning immediately to the right on the first floor, one entered this room.

For my parents, it was the room in which to read the newspaper, play board games, listen to the console radio and later the huge stereo where Mom’s Sinatra records were often playing, and to entertain the many family members who lived a short distance away. More than once we kids would see Dad and Mom lying on the floor embracing (!), or standing in the middle of the room in each other’s arms. Yeah, such displays of affection…well, LOVE…were frequent there in that room.

Posing, with a fake cigarette

As for us kids, that front room was where we rough-housed, played, watched TV, did our homework (often while we watched TV), tore open enough Christmas presents for the eight of us, and watched slides I’d taken of those aforementioned activities. It was in that room that the youngest of us was confined to a playpen, and the oldest of us ( that would be me) posed for prom pictures.

That’s the room my younger (by 2 1/2 years) brother Kim and I had a no-holds-barred fight, to settle some now-long-forgotten disagreement. While Kim has no memory of this, I remember clearly being so ticked off at him, I said, “Let’s just go settle this in the living room, and no holding back!” He accepted the challenge, threw one opening punch and chipped one of my front teeth. With that, I tearily complained to Mom, “Kim hit me!”

One very special memory of that Liberty Avenue living room involves my call to ministry. Dad was in a highback chair reading his evening paper, and I approached him with a form to fill out for my junior high school guidance counselor. The completed form would help plan my high school course of study. I had filled in my first two vocational choices: dentistry and scientific writing. I had chosen the latter only because my guidance counselor had found that my good grades in math and science matched some primitive algorithm printed in “The Ninth Grade School Counselor’s Guide to Helping Students Find a Job Based on Present Academic Progress.” The subtitle might have been “…Providing the Student Continues to Make Successful Progress in Chosen Areas.” Turns out, I didn’t.

As for dentistry, that was purely my decision. I have no memory of why. But there was a third blank to fill in. Dad put down his newspaper, is looking at the form, and asked, “What do you want to put down for number 3?” When I said how about the ministry, he turned from the form and looked at me and said, “Are you sure?” And the rest is ministry.

Harry and Bev at leisure

That room, by the way, was in constant flux, interior design-wise. Mom loved redecorating. The furniture was moved frequently, the carpet replaced, the entry door became a French door with wall-papered panels…you get the idea. Mom wanted her living space to be a sometime sanctuary, away from the kitchen, her sewing room, and the ironing board.

Thus, the first room I think about in this Lenten series is a Liberty Ave. living room. Living room. It’s where we did our living as a family, and it lives long in our memories. No doubt some less pleasant memories are hidden under the sofa or covered over by a carpet. I’m grateful though that for the most part my thoughts about that main room from my youth lead (present tense) to warm smiles and positive remembrances of home.