It's 1995, Again.
The house is always full, always loud, always alive.
It’s 1995 and somehow I’m back in our old house. A simple Bungalow, painted green, with an old wooden brown sign that reads, “The Demone’s.”
The house is always full, always loud, always alive.
My parents are younger.
They’re both here.
My siblings are all still living at home.
No one has graduated.
No one has moved out.
No one has disappeared into adulthood yet.
No one has died.
I’m 10 years old.
In the Livingroom, light grey carpet rests. There are cartoons and Christmas commercials playing in the background on the wooden box TV, that always sits center in the Livingroom.
There is a manger scene resting on top of the TV with lights and fake snow.
As you make your way from the Livingroom into the the kitchen, the floor is linoleum — dark brown squares with those yellowish designs and flecks of gold. The kitchen leads into the den, the carpet is that red‑brown‑tan pattern that never made sense but belonged to us anyway. Two Tiffany lights hanging from the ceiling — yellowish in color with dark brown outlines and tiny flowers on each of the drop design. Looking up to the ceiling you see the old attic drop door that gets pulled down and used primarily when our parents want to hide gifts, old toys, or clothing from the past.
It’s December.
Snow everywhere outside. The wood furnace in the basement roaring with heat, radiators tinging throughout the house. Dad always stocked it a little too much, which ignited mom into talking to herself and muttering that he was going to burn the house down.
In the den, the Jesse tree is already up — that big stick of a tree we cut from the woods. People would’ve called it a Charlie Brown tree, but to us it was a Jesse tree. Held up by a wooden T‑cross stand homemade by someone other than Dad. It was solid enough to survive anything but with no room for water.
The tree had too many ornaments.
Multicolored lights everywhere.
It didn’t matter.
It always surprisingly lasted the holiday without falling over.
“Old Toy Trains” is playing in the background, as we finished decorating the tree.
Mom has the boxes of decorations out. Some boxes labeled with our names. “Renee’s tree, Sarah’s tree, Martha’s tree, Boy’s room, etc.”
We all had our own tiny trees in our rooms — little fur trees we’d cut ourselves and decorate with our own ornaments and mini lights.
It was the official sign that Christmas was close.
The house feels full.
Not just with people — with excitement.
With that stomach‑tightening anticipation kids get in December.
School break coming.
Holiday potlucks.
Family visits.
Toy commercials every five minutes.
The Sobey’s Christmas commercial playing right before Christmas, a sure sign it was only days away.
Dad’s at the kitchen table making lists.
Things to pick up in town.
Things for their trip to Halifax.
Stocking stuffers.
Presents.
Groceries.
He always looked serious when he made lists, like he was planning a military operation instead of Christmas shopping.
The big Christmas tree isn’t in the Livingroom yet.
Mom and Dad are still debating when to cut it down.
Too early and it dries out.
Too late and we complain.
Usually it happens the second weekend of December — all of us piling into the van for the Christmas tree excursion.
A full family event.
No one stays home.
No one opts out.
The mantel is covered in decorations Mom and Dad collected over the years.
Little lights.
Little figures.
Nothing matched, but it didn’t need to.
The whole house looked like Santa’s village, and somehow it worked.
There’s laughter.
There’s arguing.
Someone’s accusing someone else of stealing clothes again.
Someone’s singing along to the TV.
It’s busy.
It’s loud.
It’s alive.
And standing in the middle of it, you can feel it — that warm, buzzing feeling that only comes from being surrounded by your whole family before life starts pulling everyone in different directions.
It’s 1995.
Everyone is still here.
Everything is still whole.
And the house is bursting with life.
