This is the fourth installment of my Time Travel series.

 

I had been dashed upon the rocks.

It was the summer of 1976 and, after boldly moving out of the family home the year previous, living in my first apartment, having my dream apartment stolen out from under me, moving into my second apartment (a place quite glorious), then after a duplicitous employer brought me to financial desperation, I…I…moved back in with mom and dad.

All this had elapsed in less than a year. Today, I look back at all I had been through in about nine months and am breathless.

I was nineteen, out-of-work, broke, and back in my childhood bedroom.

But, did I despair?

No! Because…I had a great decorating challenge!

 

Somehow, I had to move the contents of my two previous apartments into my old 12 x 12 bedroom.

Today, I look at the images which follow and cringe. Cringe! The room is stuffed to the gills—well, beyond stuffed—and I feel suffocated. Today, I could not breathe in such a room but at the time I felt enormous pride. It was dramatic! It looked like no other room!

In this 12 x 12 room, I squeezed in a full-size sofa, a single bed, two upholstered side chairs, a 1930s armoire, a 1920s dining room credenza, two floor lamps, a hanging pendant with hot pink fringe, two wall sconces, a folding screen, a stereo with speakers, two areca palms, and—but of course, dahlink!—a crystal chandelier.

All this, in a 12 x 12 room.

Just typing this makes my lungs constrict.

Wanna see? Scroll down…if…you…dare!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To the right was a fabulous 1930s armoire.

Adjacent, is a 1920s Spanish-Revival wall sconce from the Vinoy Park Hotel.

On the coffee table are copies of my treasured Architectural Digest.

Now, if you turn to the right…

 

 

 

You can see my grandmother’s 1920s credenza from my first apartment. In front are two slipper chairs that I had purchased at Mass Brothers after they had been discounted discounted discounted because nobody in St. Petersburg understood what a slipper chair was (an upholstered chair with no arms).

On the dark burgundy walls I had attached thin strips of wood on the diagonal. I thought this was figgin’ brilliant and would employ this treatment for several years.

The aforementioned screen (left) covered the closet, meaning that it could not be accessed. WTF?

 

 

The copper lamp was another profoundly discounted Mass Brothers purchase.

Adjacent was a fabulous fountain head made of concrete. I found it moldering the year previous, discarded, in the backyard of my first job. I gave it a better home.

Directly next to the head was a book called Grand Illusions, filled with incredible images of movie stars. I had checked it out from the public library, and then ruthlessly tore out images to frame, such as Greta Garbo, above. I know, I know, bad Ross.

(Decades later, after I discovered the internet, I did a search for the book. I instantly found one in mint condition, purchased it, and sent it to the main branch of the St. Petersburg Public Library, and with an explanation and apology. Soon after, I received a letter from the head librarian. She had remembered the book, was thrilled and gobsmacked to have it back after more than two decades, and was pleased to let me know that just the month previous they had waived all late fees regarding books overdue more than year. She wrote: “Otherwise the late fees would have bankrupted you.” She added that the whole staff adored the story of the returned book.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

All the light fixtures (six visible, and with two hidden spotlights under-lighting the areca palms) had 7W lightbulbs which I left on 24/7. This drove my dad crazy (he had since returned from working in Texas), as had the same issue with my sister the year previous.

One thing which I gave no thought to at the time was my mother’s 11PM curfew rule, which had driven me out of the house the previous year. After returning home, this rule was never again mentioned, and I would return home six nights a week at 3AM or 4AM. Or, sometimes at, say, 10AM if I had, ah, met some charming man at the disco.

Mom never said a word.  What happened? Was she just so glad to have me back? Had the return of dad influenced things? It is only while writing these words that these questions occurred to me.

 

 

 

 

Today, my 1894 parlor at the Cross House is also dramatic. But it and my 1976 room are otherwise not at all the same.

My 1976 room was stuffed. My current parlor has an emptiness which enables my being able to breathe. I can walk around each piece of furniture, and can even walk fully around the sofa to access the windows. The sofa is not held up by bricks.

My 1976 room had curtains overtaking the windows, bed sheets acting as secondary drapery and always closed, and King Tut covering one window. In short, no sunlight penetrated the room. My current parlor has drapery carefully subordinate to the trim, and I cherish being able to look out. I cherish sunlight.

My 1976 room was a stage set. It was thrown together hurriedly, cheaply, with HOW it looked being the important thing. Today, I understand the value of quality and that no room can truly be beautiful if it’s sloppily done.

My 1976 room managed nonetheless to become a dramatic kind of clubhouse for all my friends, as we would meet there most nights before jumping into my Thunderbird to head to the discos.

I held my twentieth birthday party in my parent’s house and, possibly, my twenty-first. Then, I moved into my fourth apartment, and the furnishing stuffed into a 12 x 12 room were allowed to spread out over four rooms. What luxury.

My memory recalls that living back at home was mostly pleasant. After the never-ending drama of my brief time out of the family home, my 12 x 12 room at home offered an oasis.

Thanks, mom. Thanks, dad.