The House That Built Me
Listen to the Full Episode
The House That Built Me
In episode one, we’ll unpack why physical spaces leave such lasting impressions, how to mine those memories even if they’re fuzzy, and how your childhood home might just be the perfect starting point for your memoir.
I’ll share a personal story, answer a question from a listener named Linda, and wrap it all up with a writing prompt that you can start today.
And hey—if you’d like a transcript of this episode or want to download the printable writing prompt, head over to MemoirClub.net.
A Personal Story
Let me take you back to the house I grew up in. It was a little 800 sf, two-bedroom, one bath Crackerbox in a little enclave of about a dozen similar houses. We moved there in 1954, when I was four years old and my sister was three. It was about 10 miles from the eastern border of Washington, DC, on a dirt road, surrounded by about 100 acres of woods. Our yard was about a third of an acre, and for a while we had a hen house and about fifty chickens in the back yard.
Over the next 13 years, my parents had three more children. Having seven people in a two-bedroom, one bath house was tight. There was a girls bedroom, a boys bedroom, and my parents slept on a sofa bed in the living room.
The floors were wood—we had no rugs. With five kids spanning ten years in age, the floors stayed cluttered, despite my mother’s best efforts. I learned to step over toys and clothes, never picking them up; a habit that didn’t get broken until the mid-1970s, when my wife trained me to pick things up.
We didn’t have a telephone until 1959, or own a car until 1966. Neighbors let us use their phones when needed, and my grandmother lent us her car on weekends for shopping, errands, and laundry (we didn’t have a washing machine, either.)
The kitchen was barely big enough for Mom to cook. The table fit only two people. The house was noisy and chaotic. My refuge was my transistor radio. It was a turquoise Radio Shack model with a leather case and earbuds. I’d lie on my top bunk and absorb the music. If the weather was nice, I’d go off into the woods and wander along the creek or climb a tree and sit until dusk. I’d go to sleep listening to the rhythm of trains rolling along the tracks a half-mile away or listening to the melodies of whippoorwills.
It was home. It was my “normal.” I didn’t know anything different. I never realized that I lived on “the wrong side of the tracks” until I went to high school, and met kids who wore new clothes instead of an uncle’s hand-me-downs, and lived in nice neighborhoods with brick houses and sidewalks.
Then, I began to hate my house. I hated the shabby furniture, the dirt road, the lack of privacy. I hated the clothes I was forced to wear. But it made me determined to do better. I hated that house for what it lacked—but I’ve come to respect it for what it taught me: how to move forward with grit, how to stay grateful, and how to pick things up—even when I didn’t drop them.
Reflection
Let’s talk about why these places linger.
Homes are more than structures—they’re sensory museums.
We remember places through texture and smell and sound. The click of the thermostat. The rustle of leaves outside your bedroom window. The smell of burnt toast or hair spray or freshly cut grass through an open window.
Even if you can’t remember the color of the walls, you might remember how it felt to come home after school. The way the light looked through the curtains in the afternoon. The sound of your dad’s keys jangling as he came in from work.
So when you sit down to write about your childhood home, don’t worry if the picture isn’t perfect. Start with the small things.
Write down what you do remember:
- What room did you spend the most time in?
- Was there a closet you were afraid of?
- Where did you sit to eat breakfast?
- What sounds filled the house—TV in the background, siblings fighting, your mom singing off-key while folding laundry?
Use your five senses. Think of your childhood home as a stage set. You’re the main character. The audience wants to know—what was the scene?
If you’re stuck, try this trick: sketch it. Grab a pencil and draw a rough floor plan of the house. It doesn’t have to be pretty or to scale—this isn’t architecture school. Just label the rooms. What happened in each one?
As you draw, details come back. You might remember the smell of your brother’s socks in the shared bedroom. The feel of cold linoleum under your feet on winter mornings. The way the kitchen light flickered for months and nobody fixed it.
Memoir is all about capturing the truth of your experience—not just what happened, but how it felt. And there’s no better place to start than the place that shaped you.
Key Takeaway
Here’s the heart of today’s episode:
Your childhood home isn’t just a setting—it’s a character in your story.
It watched you grow. It held your laughter and your tantrums. It creaked under your footsteps and heard your late-night whispers to the dark.
Even if it’s gone now, or changed beyond recognition, the memory of that home is still in you. It’s a doorway to your earliest stories.
So open that door.
Step inside.
And see what’s still waiting for you in the quiet corners of those rooms.
Listener Mailbox
The jaunty accordion music tells me it’s time for the Listeners Mailbox. So let’s dig in and see what we’ve got.
This week’s question comes from Linda in Asheville, who writes:
“I can remember bits and pieces of my childhood home, but a lot of the details are fuzzy. How can I write about it if I don’t remember everything clearly?”
Great question, Linda—and one I hear often.
First off, let’s normalize this: almost nobody remembers everything with crystal clarity. Memory isn’t a perfect photograph—it’s more like a watercolor painting. Soft edges. Missing spots. A little blur here and there.
That’s okay.
Start with what is clear. Even if it’s just one thing—the pattern on the curtains, the sound of your grandfather’s recliner snapping back, the way the air conditioner wheezed in the summer.
One detail leads to another.
If you’re really feeling stuck, try these:
- Look at old family photos. Not just of the house, but of you in the house. What’s in the background?
- Talk to a sibling or cousin. Their memories might jog your own—or show you something you missed.
- Think about a specific moment. A birthday, a snow day, a sick day when you stayed home. Zoom in. What room were you in? Who was there?
And remember: memoir doesn’t require a complete inventory of facts. You’re not testifying in court—you’re sharing a personal experience. And that experience has value, even if some of it is fuzzy.
If all you remember is the way the sunlight hit the kitchen floor on Saturday mornings—that’s a great place to begin.
So thank you, Linda. Keep going. You’re doing it right.
Prompt of the Week
Let’s wrap up with your Prompt of the Week.
This week, I want you to write about your childhood home.
Here’s the prompt:
Describe your childhood home in detail.
What did it look like? What did it smell like? What were the sounds, the routines, the corners where stories happened?
To help you dig a little deeper, here are some bonus questions to explore:
- Who lived there with you?
- Was there a specific room you loved—or hated?
- What memory comes up first when you think about that house?
- If you could walk through it today, what’s the first thing you’d look for?
And if you want a fun twist: try sketching the floor plan from memory. Just a rough drawing. Label the rooms. See what memories come back as you draw.
This is a powerful way to reconnect with your earliest stories. Give it ten minutes. You might be surprised at what you remember.
Call to Action
If today’s episode brought back a memory—good, bad, funny, bittersweet—write it down.
Your childhood home was more than just wood and drywall. It was your first world. And the stories it holds are still part of who you are.