I grew up in a two story Dutch Colonial that was built in 1920. The front door was purple and the stucco and wood siding were beige and there was a large magnolia tree in the side yard. An old house on Parrott, all covered with vines. The home had once been owned by a paranoid woman who lived there alone. She had renovated the house to suit her fears. The stairwell was in the center of the dwelling, surrounded by the kitchen, living, dining, and sun rooms. Every interior door locked from the inside. From the front door, you could lock yourself into the kitchen and top floor of the house, from the bottom of the stairwell locks could keep you in the hallway leading to the stairs. Once you were on the upper landing, there were two wings, each with two bedrooms. You could turn the deadbolts to keep yourself nestled in either wing, then any of the bedrooms, and finally, the two walk-in closets had interior heavy steel locks. If you suspected someone was in the house who should not be, you became a matryoshka doll, nestled behind coats and skirts and six layers of metal protection while you waited for help to arrive. I locked myself—and my younger siblings—into the right wing’s closet three times.
