our house
fiction
edward w pritchard
Our house was more a warehouse than a residence. Mother always had two or three hundred pair of blue jeans piled around that she had bought for resale when prices were right. More often than not we rented a room or two in the basement or attic to a student or a stranger for extra income. Out in yard Mother often moved around apple trees for their future value based on local supply and demand.
Time went by quickly then and our house was our primary sanctuary against the hostile world. Only Mother seemed not to notice. Sometimes one of us would drive the old truck with her when she went about her business.
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