The houses were not identical as they were when we lived on base, but instead had colorful shutters, sun porches, bay windows, gardens full of roses and fruit trees, and the smell of chlorine coming from the backyard pools. During those first weeks, we’d traded in our station wagon for a Volvo, and soon we looked more like we belonged on our street.But it was the inside of our house that showed what Dad had made of our lives. To walk through our front door gave the feeling of stepping inside a military bunker. The rooms remained barren and impersonal, only containing furniture that was absolutely necessary. Nothing on the walls, nothing so extravagant as a side table full of scented candles. Dad had painted each room a gray-white he said would be easier to keep clean, but it made our house dingy and cold. It was essentials-only living, with unused rooms locked and vents closed to save on energy bills.Momma had filled our old house with wonderfully useless things: fruits and vegetables made of painted plaster, vases filled with felt flowers on wire stems.
