So obviously I just stopped blogging on this platform. I'll get back to it eventually. Or not. I'm taking a break from all social media. It seemed necessary for my mental health.
The last few years have been busy and … challenging:
- 2015 Happened. - 2016 Let's call it The Lost Year. (Obviously words failed me.) - 2017 about broke me. Literally. Mentally. - 2018 was ridiculous, proving 2017 was just a warm up. (Good thing I was already broken so it couldn't hurt as much.#2018TrashCanFire I thought things were going okay, but maybe not?)
- 2019 was such a blur. I know there were highlights, but then stuff happened and carried into the next year...
- And then in March#2020 really took a turn. Who can even categorize 2020? Do we dare?
I kinda want a do-over of some of the last few years. But life doesn’t work that way.
So for now, I'm hunkering down. Regrouping. Trying to stay safe and sort some stuff out.
Why am I sad about an actor playing a character? An actor I never met? Because ... He was "my" Gilbert. Even now, I can spend hours comfortably binging on the hours-long series watching him - as Gilbert - tease and taunt and grow up and in love with his "Carrots." And, apparently, unlike some actors who feel "pigeon-holed" or "type-cast" or "resentful" for only being known for one role, he embraced the spirit of the Anne-fandom. And, at 43? 48 is just a blink away. And feels too young. You grew up with him. The boy next door is not supposed to die. EVER. He and Anne grow up, get married, and grow old together. Here's more, by other more eloquent people. Per The New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2015/04/19/arts/television/jonathan-crombie-actor-known-as-romantic-lead-in-anne-of-green-gables-dies-at-48.html?partner=rss&emc=rss&smid=nytimesarts&_r=0
Jonathan Crombie, Romantic Lead in ‘Anne of Green Gables,’ Dies at 48
Jonathan Crombie, a Canadian actor who was known to a generation of fans as Gilbert Blythe in the mini-series “Anne of Green Gables,” died on Wednesday in New York City. He was 48.
Mr.
Crombie rose to fame as a teenager when he was cast as the handsome and
confident love interest in the 1985 Canadian television adaptation of
“Anne of Green Gables,” Lucy Maud Montgomery’s 1908 novel about an
orphan (played by Megan Follows) growing up on Prince Edward Island. It
was shown in the United States on PBS the next year.
The
role made him a household name in Canada, and he reprised it in two
sequels: “Anne of Avonlea” in 1987 and “Anne of Green Gables: The
Continuing Story” in 2000.
“I
think he was really proud of being Gilbert Blythe and was happy to
answer any questions,” Mr. Crombie’s sister, Carrie Crombie, told the
CBC. “He really enjoyed that series and was happy, very proud of it. We
all were.”
Mr.
Crombie appeared on numerous TV shows and in stage productions in both
the United States and Canada. He made his Broadway debut in 2007 in the
hit musical comedy “The Drowsy Chaperone.”
He
was also well known in his home country as the son of David Crombie,
who was mayor of Toronto from 1972 to 1978. After leaving the mayor’s
office, his father represented the city in the Canadian Parliament and
later held several cabinet positions.
“On
behalf of the people of Toronto, I extend to the entire Crombie family
my deepest sympathies on sudden death of actor Jonathan Crombie,” John
Tory, the current mayor of Toronto, wrote in an update posted to Twitter.
Mr. Crombie was born in Toronto on Oct. 12, 1966. Survivors include his sister and his father.
Kevin
Sullivan, the producer of “Anne of Green Gables,” told the CBC that Mr.
Crombie was chosen as Gilbert at the age of 17 after the casting
director saw him perform in a school play.
“I
think for legions of young women around the world who fell in love with
the ‘Anne of Green Gables’ films, Jonathan literally represented the
quintessential boy next door, and there were literally thousands of
women who wrote to him over the years who saw him as a perfect mate,”
Mr. Sullivan said. [emphasis my own]
Like the author of this article in the New Yorker, I had a girl-friend with whom I bonded over hours of the Sullivan films in the mid-80s. I had fond memories of a sleepover, those innocent teenaged sleepovers, with popcorn, and a copy of the films that some parent had taped (on a VCR) during the PBS pledgefest that inauguarted the films to USA audiences. To this day, we're still friends. We still talk every week. It was she that I immediately turned to for comfort. (She was sad, but not sad, sad like me. We're bosom friends, but like Diana - she had her Fred. I had dreams of a Gilbert.) Per The New Yorker, http://www.newyorker.com/culture/sarah-larson/jonathan-crombie-why-we-loved-gilbert-blythe?mbid=social_twitter
In “Anne of Green Gables,” Jonathan
Crombie, who died Wednesday, gave Gilbert Blythe caring, intelligence,
and dreaminess: qualities that enchant seventh-grade girls.Credit PHOTOGRAPH BY DICK LOEK / TORONTO STAR VIA GETTY IMAGES
Many were saddened, this weekend, to learn of the death of Jonathan Crombie,
the forty-eight-year-old actor who played Gilbert Blythe in the CBC’s
film adaptations of the “Anne of Green Gables” books. People on the
Internet were using the phrase “depths of despair,” as Anne Shirley
would. Gilbert was many people’s first love.
A
kindred spirit of mine—a bosom friend I’ve known since girlhood—once
observed that the best kind of romantic movie involves impassioned
gazing. (She told me this while recommending the 2004 BBC red-hot
starefest “North & South,” which features I-see-into-your-soul
staring of the Mr. Darcy variety, the kind that says, I see you—and I am too respectful to do anything but dream from afar until I deserve you.)
“Anne of Green Gables” isn’t a romance, exactly; it’s a series about
growing up. But it’s no coincidence, I realized yesterday, that this
same friend first alerted me to the phenomenon of Crombie as Gilbert
Blythe. It
was 1986, and she and I were in seventh grade, in an airport. We were
taking a trip to Disney World with my mother during our spring vacation.
We were excited, but, my friend told me, we were missing something very
important on television: part something-or-other of the PBS broadcast
of “Anne of Green Gables,” which had just burst on the scene from
Canada, a gorgeous agrarian world allowing for both puff sleeves and female ambition. She told me about Gilbert Blythe in great detail. When we were able to watch, I admired it all for myself. L.
M. Montgomery, the author of the “Anne” series, described Gilbert as “a
tall boy, with curly brown hair, roguish hazel eyes, and a mouth
twisted into a teasing smile.” Crombie was kinder—lively eyes, nothing
twisted about the mouth. His affection was evident all along. Crombie
gave Gilbert caring, intelligence, and dreaminess: qualities that
enchant seventh-grade girls. As in “Pride and
Prejudice,” things begin badly between our heroes. Gilbert admires Anne
(Megan Follows) when she arrives at their one-room schoolhouse; she
registers his handsomeness but ignores him, in part because of his
cockiness; he calls her Carrots; she smashes a slate over his head. The
“Carrots” slate-smash is “Anne” ’s “tolerable, I suppose, but not
handsome enough to tempt me” moment, setting in motion a whole course of
standoffs and shenanigans which, after many years, finally end as they
should—with mutual understanding and perfect bliss. In between: oh, the
staring. Crombie was an expert gazer. Through
meaningful looks and other subtleties, he showed that Gilbert wasn’t
threatened when Anne could spell “chrysanthemum” and he couldn’t; he
appeared deeply concerned when she fell off the ridgepole, and didn’t
mock her for braving it; he was kind during the “The Lady of Shalott”
escapade, while executing a dashing rescue. In this video, a young Crombie explains that the moment Anne breaks a slate over Gilbert’s head is the moment he starts growing up. For
girls my age, that was an important moment, too. The “Anne” series let
us dream about adolescence while holding on to childhood. The world of
Avonlea—Matthew and Marilla
Cuthbert, the apple blossoms and the knickers and caps, dance cards,
hay rides, Gilbert’s patient and steadfast heart—was gentler than what
we might have imagined about adolescence. It wasn’t “The Breakfast
Club,” and that was, on some secret level, very exciting—a last moment
of being able to enjoy gentler childhood ideals. “Anne of Green Gables”
appealed to those impulses without condescending to us. It wasn’t
exactly cool. It had no edge. You didn’t want to race into school and
announce that you were obsessed with “Anne of Green Gables.” But, to
your bosom friend, you could discuss its many joys to your heart’s
content. And Gilbert Blythe, because he was the
romantic ideal and a feminist, in his way—always respecting Anne’s
intellect and ambitions, competing with her and admiring her
academically—was an encouraging example of what teenagerdom and a loving
gaze might have in store. Here he is calling her “Carrots” and getting his just desserts.
[emphasis my own.]
My nieces are reaching the age at which Anne-girl and her friends enter their lives. I was looking forward to introducing them to "my" Gilbert. I still will. But when I start crying, that will be harder to explain. Until they are older and can read this.
From time to time we're flashing back to some of Grandmary's additions to my baby book. These sheets were just stuffed to the back of the book for years and years. I've sorted them into order, and put them in archival sleeves to preserve them in their physical state. They are also preserved here for all to see. Not the different formatting and different fonts. Most especially, check out Grandmary's handwriting. That's super fun to see. The reason we get an entry so relatively soon after the January 1975 addition, is because my track record of being a klutz is starting to leave evidence all over my face - marking me for years to come.May 20, 1975
I’d better add this or I doubt I’ll remember it when I write again. It has been a non spring, but on the pretty days [Nettie] won’t go outside. One Saturday, she was riding with her daddy on the motorcycle and got a bug up her nose. Now, she is afraid of bugs and being outside. [AN: And wouldn’t you be, if a bug flew up your nose? YECH!] Our first real fear to conquer. She still tells us no and won’t listen. Who says the threes are calm years?
And I must not forget her stitches. On January 28, I was bathing Jed and she came into show me something and ran out, as she had been told not to do—run in the house. She tripped, and I heard a crash. She started to cry, which was unusual, so I asked her what was wrong. She only kept crying, so I jerked Jed out of the tub, wrapped him a towel, and rushed into the family room to see what was the matter. There she was sitting by the big chair with blood all over her face. I put Jed in his crib, grabbed a towel and wiped off the blood to assess the damage. Immediately, I could tell that she needed stitches, so I called Max to come home take her up to the hospital, since it was about 8:30 [a.m.] and the doctor would not be in until 9:00 or later. I held her to keep her talking because I was frightened too and did not know how hard the blow had been. She got about 8 stitches, but the scar is looking fine now and in time will not be noticeable at all. She still runs in the house, though. [AN: It was the 1970s. Plastic surgery in the ER didn’t crop up until the 1990s. It took about 30 years, but you can barely notice the scar dissecting my eyebrow unless you know where to look.]
And finally, on March 11 she got her last molar, but not before a cold and throwing up. At least she has all her teeth now, and two sets of stitches.
AN Notes: Two sets?! Oh yes. The 1970s were the era when all kinds of accidents happened that caused later regulations. Say, like the seat belts in the shopping cart carriages? The story goes that I stood up in a metal grocery store shopping cart and it tipped over, causing a scar on the underside of my chin. I don’t remember this happening, unlike the above mentioned trip to the ER. THAT trip I remember, unlike most of the B.C. (before Connecticut 1980 move) years. Unless you are looking up at my chin, you can’t see the scar. You probably CAN see the other scar on my chin, caused by messing around with Jed and a metal vacuum cleaner when we were teenagers. Moral of that story? Don’t mess around with your brother and a metal vacuum cleaner and then try to hide the accident and lie to your parents, or you’ll have the physical scars to show for it for the rest of your life. Some people carry all their scars on the inside. I have battle wounds on the outside, as well as in an archival box to exhume later.
Note: This is the last chronological entry in the Musings from Mary, although I'll be featuring one more in a month or two, from May 1975. This will just give you a sense of my future/past developmental milestone and hairdos!
L: Age unknown aka Mullet hair ~ R: Age unknown aka Farrah Flyaways Age Unknown - Barrettes and Bangs
March 16, 1977
Nearly two years since I last wrote:
Calmer – not many no’s Outside little in Summer '75 Fall ’75 started dancing. Primary Nail biting, picking [AN: STILL picking the cuticles!] Neighborhood nursery – Jan. 1976 – May '76 Summer School 1976. Hair cut June '76 Pre-school Still loves books Our conflicts and clashes: Naps downstairs Summer '76 Rides with daddy on motorcycle Colors, shapes, books, coloring, crafts, days of week Helpful still. Stubborn which causes clashes Needs more physical love and time. Slow to get attention [AN: STILL!]
AN Notes: I was five by this point. Jed would have been two and change. She would have been running around after us. Being Molly Mormon. Helping Dad with papers. Doing Weight Watchers, both participating and teaching. She didn’t have time to type up Dr. Spock notes any more. Plus in another year or so … J would be in development and/or making an appearance, and by 1980, we were moving! That’s a LOT! In a pre-cable tv, pre-word processor, pre-microwave, pre-Internet 1970s oil embargo- world when Dad was schooling and working and we live far away from all but the great-aunts. Was it a better time? Possibly? Were there different stresses and distractions? Surely. (Actually, that was Aunt Shirley – and she helped a lot!)
Thanks for all of these Mom. It's been oddly educational to be reading about my infantile/young self in these musings now that I'm supposedly all "mature" and "middle-aged!"
The one I've been anticipating for almost three years now, the one that made it final, irrevocable.
The end of an era.
Subject: Willimantic Home Sold! "We got call from Attorney at 12:30 PM our time that all paper work and deals had been signed. He will Express mail us the final documents and what was left of the money tomorrow morning.
New owner has keys and will be taking care of whatever needs to be done to move in ASAP.
Done and Done!
Let it snow or rain, I don't have to worry about leaks, breaks, or bugs out there any more."
It really wasn't a surprise. This has been a long process of adjustment.
First there was the family announcement. Then the For Sale sign went up. The neighbors and friends began to realize. There were open houses, walk-throughs, followed by near misses due to economic issues and lack of bank financing. The moving trucks came and left for Utah. I visited, more than once, and there was the ongoing removal of "just one more thing." The calendar cycled through months and then years. Dad flew out in October to deal with a host of major issues, including, securing a new agent. Things began to finally move, and this past December, my last set of "emergency keys" were removed from my key ring ... for good.
Throughout this there were prayers and the relearning of the concepts of patience and "in the Lord's time."
But now? It's really real.
And, as I've said to a few people,
I feel weirdly ... Weird about it.
But glad.
It was time.
I have more to say ... stuff that will include pulling out and reworking the draft of the post I wrote in the immediate aftermath/processing of when my parents first told me in July 2010 ... but for now, I will leave you with this story.
The photos above are from the main entrance of the house, the formal entrance - the one we as family we would use the least, but still considered the front. To enter this way, you would ring the doorbell and get the classic two-tone chime. The "screen" door would be opened, and then you would be invited in through the classic and very solid wooden door - bedecked with it's classic oval glass, dental and fancy molding, and very vintage mail slot.
Those people who say that buildings don't have souls are wrong. When a house has been loved as a home, it will love - and show - you in return.
On many of my solo visits since my family moved out for good, I have wandered the rooms, stairs, and floors photographing and reliving my experiences under this roof. I have stroked woodwork, caressed banisters, swept out cobwebs, and infused what happy karma I could into empty corners. I have breathed in the house's distinctive scents and expelled out my blessings, whispering throughout: "Thank you. Thank you for keeping us safe. Thank you for being patient with our rough-housing. You were a good house; you were good for us. Be good for the next family. Thank you isn't enough, but thank you for everything."
As I was trying to prop the front door -- open just a crack -- to take the photo on the right, the door would continually, slowly, steadily, open wider ... as if to invite me to walk back over the threshold.
Some would blame gravity or some other physical force, but for years I sat in that room practicing my piano with my back to that door. For years I lived under that roof; I would go in and out that door to collect the mail or papers; for years, that door would welcome friends, family, guests, and then, just me ... back home ... and the door would not swing open like that.
I had to wistfully and tearfully whisper, "Thank you. I will come in for a minute, but then I have to leave. This time for good. But thank you."
The next time, the door stayed where I put it.
And then when I came in, closed the door, and threw the deadbolt, there was certain click of finality to it. The action may have been automatic, but the realization came a second later, and I had to pause and take a deep breath.
I had probably just literally and figuratively closed a door on a chapter of my life.
Until the house was sold, there was always the possibility of going back, but I think I knew then.
I had been having dreams recently too, subconscious message from beyond, that the end was coming.
Dad's e-mail made it really real. That era is over. My parents can finally exhale, and we can whisper "thank you" out to the universe again and again.
Dwellings may come and go, but there really is no place ... like a home.
As part of our theological education in my church, the children spend additional instructional time, as well as congregational time away from the adults-- while they in turn have their own theological education. Primary, as this is called, is for the under 12 year-olds, and comprises of age-grouped class time, as well as a group time with all of the kids. These "opening exercises" have prayers, hymns, scripture readings/moments, a sharing time (kind of like a religious show-and-tell/lunch and learn), and singing time, where we learned new songs and/or practiced group pieces for the inclusive group sessions aka Sacrament meeting. The kids participate by giving the prayers, scripture readings, and assisting with sharing time. It's an example of how our public speaking training starts as early as the age of 3-5 (if not earlier). In my case, I was also providing the musical accompaniment for all of Primary and the Sacrament Meeting, as early as 10ish(?).
The enclosed is a sharing time piece that my mother gave. The Primary must have been highlighting various kids around their birthdays.
February 18, 1976 Was the Special Person for Primary
This special person is a little girl who is very sharing with her little brother, especially his toys. She really tries to help her mother like her teachers tell her in Primary and Junior Sunday School by setting the table, picking up her toys and her brother’s toys, and making her new bed. In October she took a trip with her family to visit her grandparents in North Carolina. Upon her return, she started taking dance lessons and participated in a dance program before Christmas to help with charity. She is really learning many things, like how to color, to write her name, and to count from 20 to 30. The most exciting thing to happen lately was her fourth birthday on Friday. She had a party with all her friends in the neighborhood nursery who are also in her Primary class. Her Mama and daddy love her very much and are thankful that [Auntie Nettie] came to live in their home.
Auntie Nettie and Grandmary c. early 1976 courtesy of Grumpa Max Frighteningly, Grandmary is younger in this picture than I am "write" now Also, that means I'm about Nathan/Elle's age here.
Although my 40th year of celebrations is almost over, I'm still excited to share these glimpses back into my past. It's a good measure of how far I've come - though, to be honest, it's not hard to feel accomplished given that these entries are all about managing to learn how to deal with basic body functions and talking!
It's amazing how much you learn in your first few years of life, but how set you are in the core of yourself, really, in those few years. Despite more than 30 years of exposure to new things, and other cultural, societal, culinary, educational, and geopolitical pressures, that core doesn't really change too much. To wit, please note: I'm about the age in the musings that nephew Nathan is currently. What will he be like in 20, 30, 40 years? Hopefully still the happy, optimistic, sunny kid, not too fazed by his older sisters' antics. Maybe he'll love horses, books, animals, or ... be involved with automobiles ... or some sort of police or fireman, or military man, protecting home, family, and country. Anyway, these musings are by Grandmary about me ... lo, those many years ago.
L: February 13, 1974, Second Birthday ~ R: TBD
January 16, 1975 [AN: New typewriter and I'm not quite three here, 2 years, 11 months]
My, it’s has been over a year and four months since I wrote about our [Nettie] and she is nearly three years old now; quite a young lady. She has a little two month old brother, Jed, now and does not seem to be too jealous of him. His is another story for another book, so let me see if I can summarize the last year with [her.]
FEEDING
[Nettie] eats what we eat now and has nearly mastered a salad sized fork. I say she eats what we eat now—everything but potatoes, except fried ones. She will eat them raw, but that’s the only way. She doesn’t eat bananas either. [AN: I have apparently NEVER LIKED BANANAS!] In fact, she is not much of a fruit eater, but will eat any type of meat given her. [AN: Meat good.] In October of ’73 when we flew home to N.C. last, she began to eat eggs, and we try to have an egg at least once or twice a week. She likes food and usually east well at meals, but not in between. The past August, she stopped her snack in the afternoons and now usually eats three good meals a day. She doesn’t like milk in the mornings, preferring to have Tang whenever we will let her. On 18 Dec 1974 she weighed 28 pounds and was 36 inches tall. [AN: Tang! Chemical Tang!]
SLEEPING
[Nettie] now goes to bed awake, and I doubt that there are many nights that she goes directly to sleep without playing. Starting sometime soon after writing the last installment, we played a radio in her room at night until we got ready to go to bed and throughout her afternoon naps. This radio was to keep the noise down in the apartment next door. This July, after moving to [AN: REDACTED], Max got her bed done and she has not fallen out of it yet. She still sleeps 12 hours, or is in bed about 12 hours and takes naps at 1:00 until usually three. At her check up at 2 ½ the doctor found that she had a heart murmur and encouraged us to let her have all the rest that she would take. A bedtime ritual is reading two books which has been going on since the last writing. Now, she has quite a collection of books. [AN: And that’s when I started collecting books!]
OTHER ACTIVITIES
Bathtime means bubbles now. She loves to play in them. She still only gets the one bath a day now, and does a sloppy job washing herself.
[Nettie’s] vocabulary is great now and she puts sentences together well. For over a year now she was watched Sesame Street regularly and can now count to 10 and say the alphabet to P, and in generally recognize all the letters and numbers. She knows all the names of the colors but does get them confused often. For the past four months, she has been a Romper Room regular too and is really absorbing ideas and relationships. She started Junior Sunday School January 8, 1975. She is not quite as helpful as she once was, which may be is partly my fault, but then is so busy exploring her world and its limits. She can set the table and does put all the toys away. Since Jed was born, she has become a little more helpless. Before it got too cold, she had about mastered her tricycle, and I look forward to spring when she can play outside more and become more coordinated.
She is all potty trained, but we did not get down to serious business with that until after she was two. For several weeks, we tried the potty on the big toilet but that did not work at all. She just would not go. Finally, we borrowed a potty chair and after several more days of working with her for twenty or more minutes and spanking her, she would cry and relax her muscles enough to go. I would cry with her and give her big kisses. For several months all I did as take her to the potty at least every hour. To BM train her was easy after that. Then too she got milk poisoning from whole milk about that time and the diarrhea made it easier. By summer of ’74 she was dry at night too. It was simple after she realized what she was supposed to do! [AN: I *think* I’m thankful Mom recorded all this, I suppose?]
[Nettie] is still a generally happy child but right now she is really asserting herself and telling us no and not doing what she is asked. I hope I have the patience to endure this phase! [AN: HA! Just you wait woman.]
AN Notes: Grandmary and Grumpa Max lived in a series of apartments in Logan, Utah in their married life, and then one house. I think I lived in two apartments with them and then the house. I only remember living in the house, seen here on the right, in its incarnation in 2010. On the left, is the apartment probably referred to above - also taken in 2010. It was down the block from the house. This was probably the first instance in my life, of us literally moving next door, or down the block. That includes my most recent move, in 2006, from down the building two addresses down the street, to the most current studio from which I am blogging.
Once upon a time, when this was my bedroom, this view was the one from my bed. This corner was out of sight of the rest of the room, inches from a light source, a window - one of four that looked out over my corner of the world. It was during "nap-time" or "lights out," that this particular corner was best used. Books were stashed within arms reach under the mattress or bed frame, so I could stretch my body, arms, and the ability of my eyes to reach by light filtered in by using the drapes, which I used also to prop open the shade. It's amazing I can see as well as I can "write" now, without aid of lenses or prescriptions, because the hours I spent straining to read by streetlight or moonlight, or even in the dark are going to catch up with me eventually.
I don't know who I thought I was kidding, but for years I thought stashing stuff in this corner, be it contraband novels, a diary, my notBarbies, kept them secret and secure. I perfected the "book drop, shove under the bed, fix the blinds, roll over, and even out breathing so you sound like you are sound asleep" technique in perfect time to which ever parent was tromping up our stairs. (The various creaks and snap, crackle, pop, of the wood treads and my parents' knees and ankles provided auditory warning and coverage for our actions and identified which parent it was.)
I still stash things in odd corners - you have to in a New York studio - but nothing has ever come close to replicating the sense of peaceful security and vista to imagination that this corner of mine did.
Why is that we don't take the time to sit on our front porches anymore -- to read, to get to know our neighbors, to yell at the pesky children cutting across our yard? So they sag a little around the edges ... so do we when we get to be their age.
In case anyone manages to break into the basement via the bulkhead door -- if they don't knock them selves out on the low beams, manage to pop open the door warped tightly closed, or not trip down the stairs hidden by leaves and recycling bins -- my brother's handy old slugger is at the stand-by to keep the place safe.
What you can't see due to the insulation, the telephone jack and wires, the electric wiring, and other layers that build up due of modern life, is the builders' inscription:
If these walls could talk, they may actually hum - hum with the music that was made in it's space. The timbers might echo with the tunes that were picked out painstakingly by family members, or the plaster might complain of the plight of listening to the hours of scales, Hanon or Pischna piano exercises. The floor boards might share the flourishes that came of listening to the endless choir or theater music, particularly a good Broadway tune. I like to think the whole house was infused with the inspiration of the many hours and hours of all the classical repertoire that I played upon the little upright Baldwin that was tucked in here, against the staircase in the front room. When the front door was open, the whole neighborhood either suffered along with me, or was surprisingly roused by the fury of my flying fingers.
The Hallelujah Chorus always seemed to get everyone's attention.
There's nothing quite like the smell of line-dried clothing/sheets, plus, in a close neighborhood, hanging your dirty laundry out to air takes on an entirely different meaning. You want to start a conversation about religion? Hang out some religious "funny underwear" and see how diverse your community really is. I was so lucky to grow up in a neighborhood where we had Jehovah's Witnesses, Latvian Christians, Buddhists, Catholics, and Protestants as next-door/across the street neighbors. It was a wonderful way to grow up, and learn about customs, cultures, and community. We are more alike than we are different. How do I know? I saw their underwear - as much as they saw ours. We're all basically the same when it comes down to it.
Endless games of HORSE, 1 on 1, Free Throws, thwarted dunks and rim-shots, and hours and hours of patient and impatient tutorials ... Occasionally me, but mostly the boys ... Legends only in their own minds, but awarded for perseverance nonetheless.
Tonight I’ll go to sleep in my childhood bedroom, probably
for one of the very last times.
I walked in, dropped my many bags and cares down, and just sighed
deeply – inhaling the distinctive smell of "home" -- one that has welcomed me in since the
summer of 1981. I can almost feel the house sighing with, and embracing, me.
I’m so comfortable in this oddly shaped room, with its lack
of right angles, its slanted creaking wooden floors, and nooks, crannies, dings
and dents. There’s the wall where my bed was placed; where my brother and I
used to tap out messages to each other in our own code. There are the four
large windows where I looked out on my corner of the world, out over the
treetops where I imagined I saw mythical creatures. Windows that let in fresh air and
so much sun-, street-, and moonlight, so I could read after the official “light’s
out.” There is the tiny closet, a vintage, period-appropriate feature of the
house, which still managed to house a teenager’s growing wardrobe – 1980’s
shoulder-pads and all. Over there is the corner where a bookshelf housed not
only my burgeoning library, but where my childhood toys gave way to tokens from
friends and high school beaus, and then, in turn, gave way college catalogs that helped
shaped my future.
These memories are overlaid by fading snapshots of other scenes. While my eyes take in the current neutral stripe of the
wallpaper, I still can almost feel the roses of the vintage raised velvet pink
and white pattern that faded to beige and disintegrated with age while I grew up.
Another long blink replaces my remembered view of a utilitarian fold-out table with older memories
of the hours spent at my childhood writing desk in one spot in the room, and then just as quickly flickers to other, later memories of my grandfather’s desk tucked behind the door -- my
mother’s bill-paying spot. If I turn too fast, out of the corner of my eye, I
can almost see and hear the ghosts of childhood slumber parties just there, over there
-- where now resides the fold-out couch I’m not-quite-looking forward to laying
these “mature” bones down upon.
This lovely room, the largest of the bedrooms on the second
floor, “straight ahead at the top of the stairs; don’t forget to duck” served so
many functions. After my first two years of college, it began to house more of
the family. One brother temporarily claimed it as his own, before he too was
out of the house and on to new adventures. Then it served as my father’s
office, as he needed a private sanctuary to counsel his flock and deal with all
of the administrative work inherent in decades of church service. It was the
gathering spot, above the football fray, for many a riotous Thanksgiving
gathering, where women of many generations sat and gossiped. It became a guest
room at holidays and breaks, Dad’s computer and computer-part equipment room, Mom’s
storage room, a filing room, and my landing pad – always a safe haven to come
home to – for any of its wandering former occupants.
The house is essentially empty now. The furniture that
remains does so that the building is not totally vacant. (Or, in the instance
of this massive fold-out couch, because it was so difficult
to get it in, that it’s someone else’s problem to get out.) But it’s not really
empty.
Throughout the house, but most especially in this room where
I spent so many formative years, if I close my eyes and listen closely – I can
hear the walls, windows, boards, and beams creaking back an echo of all the love and
laughter and antics of my family and our friends. This place is a part of us,
of who we were, of who we became, of who we are still becoming. We may have
left, but in a sense, we will still remain. I know this place will always have
a piece of my heart, even though I didn’t live here nearly as long as my
parents. Despite that, our time here left an imprint – on us, and on the soul of
the building.
Although I've other trips back here since my parents moved away and we've waited for the next chapter to begin for this heritage house, this weekend is probably
the last time I’ll sleep under its roof– and sleep in “my” bedroom. Despite the
bittersweet poignancy of this realization, I know I’ll sleep safe and sound,
and have sweet dreams, because …
Today I woke up at 6:45. Then mom came up to get me up. When at breakfast I had cereal and some toast. Then I did the floors. Then I went to school. At school I did math, reading, writing, spelling. When it was time to come home I had to write in this book. When it was time for supper Dad did not come home. He had to go do a special program.
While this is the last entry in this particular journal, I am still staring at a pile of paperwork that proves that this is not the end of the retroblogging retrospective(s).
Not to mention, I know that there are endless buckets of materials to glean from at the parental units house ... despite the buckets that ended up at my house.
Today when I woke when mom got us up. After I had breakfast, I did the floors and went to school. At school I did art, reading, math, drawing and spelling. Mrs. Makslla was nice today. Today for lunch I had chicken in gravy, carrocts, a roll, and vegetables. After school I came home, did some homework and practiced my piano, and then I played with someone. Who?
My nerdy self could make a Doctor Who joke here, but really ... is that wise? Just admire my spelling and artistic marginalia instead.
