I was born a mile down a dirt road, before the state maintained it, the road had so many potholes that it took my pregnant mother half an hour to drive the truck down the road, over one stream bed crossing, to the main highway.
I was born at home, in our cabin made out of recycled materials, collected from an old school house in Singers Glen. It had a tin roof, tar paper siding, and no indoor toilet until I was in 3rd grade. The bathtub was in the one room living space next to the kitchen sink and the stove, and when I was little and had to pee in the middle of the night I'd go pee in the bathtub instead of going out to the outhouse in the dark.
I still pee in the shower sometimes.
I was born at home, in the woods, on the couch, with our family doctor, and my parents friends around.
My father baptized me in the kitchen sink, next to the bathtub and the stove.
My bedroom was in the loft space, next to my parents bedroom, above the one room living space of the cabin. All my youth, I climbed a ladder to my bedroom, past the clothes line that Mom hung in the loft space in winter time, past the hanging dried herbs, or the load of underwear and socks, I hated most. Loads of towels were my favorite, easy to hang, easy to fold. Underwear and socks were ubiquitous, matching the socks, and folding Dad's underwear was hellish.
The entryway to our bedrooms were shaped like trapezoids at the roof line of the sloping tin, and so we didn't have doors to our rooms. My bedroom doorway looked out over the kitchen table, and under the kitchen table was a hinged door that went to the root cellar, but I never saw anyone open it my whole life.
When it rained, the tin roof made such a comforting sound, it never occurred to me that other people who didn't live in a recycled wood cabin in the woods with a tin roof had never heard this sound of the rain coming down on the roof. Had never been comforted by the tinkling, or the pounding, of the rain that made me feel alive.
I miss that sound. That comforting.
My parents lived in the cabin I was born in, until I was 27, and then they moved farther up the dirt road past my childhood home into the forest at the end of the valley between the two mountains that had surrounded me my entire life. My entire life, our phone number was 4513, and when my parents moved up the road to the new house they took their phone number with them, 4513.
When I relocated to Seattle, I was rear ended twice in 6 months, and having my bumper replaced and fixed spurred me to get my Washington state plates for my car. Standing in line waiting to get my plates, I came to the counter and the lady takes the plates off the top of the stack and hands them to me.