Before we moved to the inner city, our family lived on Prest Street in what felt like a typical, suburban neighborhood. It was a simpler time, one that felt almost like a different world compared to the bustling chaos that would later define our lives. The Prest house was home to my older brother Robert and my older sisters, Diane and Margaret, and for a while, it was a place of both comfort and curiosity.
Robert was, without a doubt, the coolest person I knew. With his long hair, beard, and laid-back attitude, he exuded an effortless charisma that drew people to him. Our house was often filled with his friends, and when my parents were out of town, it transformed into what I can only describe as a hippie haven. The scent of weed hung in the air, mingling with the sounds of laughter, clinking bottles, and music that filled every corner of the house. It was a vibrant, lively environment, one that contrasted sharply with my own straight-laced nature as a little kid.
Margaret, who was three years older than me, seemed to slip seamlessly into this world. She had an energy about her, a restlessness that I later understood as undiagnosed ADHD. The weed that so freely flowed during those gatherings seemed to calm her in a way nothing else did, and in some strange sense, it became her anchor through the ups and downs of life. While she joined in the festivities, I remained on the sidelines, always choosing to pass when offered a hit.
For me, those nights were often spent in quieter pursuits—like diligently working on my homework. Even amidst the haze of smoke and the sound of voices, I found a sense of peace in my books. I remember one night, Robert came into my room to tuck me in. He seemed a little lost, perhaps unsure of how to bridge the gap between our very different worlds. He asked what he should do, and I told him that I usually said my prayers before bed. Without hesitation, he knelt down and prayed with me. In that moment, the chaotic, carefree brother who was the center of every party became simply my big brother, someone who cared deeply for me despite our differences.
One snowy winter day during our time on Prest Street stands out in my memory. Robert was supposed to pick me up from school, but somehow, time got away from him. I waited quietly outside in the cold, the snow piling up around me, as the minutes turned into hours. Eventually, someone locking up the school noticed me and called my brother. When he finally arrived, I wasn’t angry or upset. I was just happy to see him. No matter what, I always looked up to Robert, and any time spent with him felt special, even if it meant waiting in the snow.
The Prest house, with its blend of chaos and warmth, shaped my early years in ways I’m only now beginning to fully understand. It was a place where love and laughter coexisted with the complexities of life, where I learned about the world through the lens of my brother and sisters. And though we would eventually leave that house behind, the memories of those days remain, a reminder of the bonds that held us together, even as life pulled us in different directions.