On the eve of Halloween it seems appropriate to talk about the various houses I have lived in that now no longer exist except in my mind. Ghosts, if you will.
Of course, my childhood home still stands...for now. My feeling is it was waiting for a visit from me before finally deciding to let go and die. I bet that before the end of the year, it will be razed.
When I first moved away from home, I lived in an apartment in an historic house in the Ft. Sanders neighborhood in Knoxville. While living there, a fire happened at the house across the street. A friend escaped. One person died. I remember hosting escapees while the firemen worked to put out the fire.
Ft. Sanders may be an historic area but that hasn't saved the many beautiful Victorians from being unceremoniously torn down by the university and the hospital to make way for parking lots and ugly apartment complexes. Such was the fate of my first apartment. "Jamaica Flats" no longer exists.
As far as I know, every place I lived in New York still exists.
However, the first place I lived in California disappeared in spectacular fashion: in the Berkeley-Oakland Firestorm of 1991. Up in smoke. Gone in a blaze of glory. Nothing left but the chimney and a pile of ashes outlining Beth's big oak desk.
Then there is The Farm. Moved. Left in a field on a hill. Then...gone. It may still exist somewhere but I don't know where so, for all intents and purposes, it's gone, too.
I ask you, is this normal? Have you lost a former abode to a fire, a storm, a bulldozer? If so, have you lost more than one?
I suppose, given how much I have moved, that the odds are in favor of more than one place disappearing but it is still a bit unsettling.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Monday, October 21, 2013
Home Sweet Home
The house we grew up in has been on the market for a while. A few months ago, before leaving California, I looked at the realtor's photos on-line. They were unnerving and tantalizing at the same time. Of course, I have walked/driven/ridden past the house many times over the past 32 years (Mom sold it in 1981). Stopped and marveled at its decrepit state, the same old air conditioner in the window, how huge the trees have gotten, how small the yard seems, the leaves piled ceiling high in the back porch. Wondered who lived there, if anyone lived there.
One time ten years ago, Sissy and I actually walked around the house then entered the woods that lie adjacent to it. Afterwards, Sissy got a migraine. Bad ju ju?
Anyway, as part of the quest I was on while living in Murvul, I decided to ask our realtor if she would be willing to give up a half hour of her time to give us an insider's tour. She agreed. (Sissy and I can't decide if she's a glutton for punishment or if she agrees to work with us so she'll have good stories to tell at her realtors' conferences.)
So one day, after Sissy and I had finished wandering around the Foothills Fall Festival and I'd shown her the plaque that marked where Hale High School used to be and we'd walked the labyrinth I'd discovered in the old Presbyterian cemetery next to St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, we met our realtor at the house. She was a few minutes late, so we had time to get ourselves sufficiently weirded out by walking around the house and yard: the same garage door with the hole cut out for Tom, the cat, and still covered with the same flap of carpet; the same mailbox; Mom's concrete planter; the same storm doors; same porch light fixture. But if we thought these things were weird, just wait until we got inside the house.
First, just let me say, you know that thing about things seeming so huge when you're small? Well, this trip confirmed that for me many times over. I don't know if it was because the trees are now HUGE (and there are trees where there used to be none) but the once vast, wide-open yard now seems miniscule. I actually felt claustrophobic standing in it. And inside everything seemed about ten times smaller than when I was a kid: Daddy's walk-in closet, for example. This is the place where I would climb up his dresser onto the shelf and lie there on the blankets and read. When I saw it, I truly believed the subsequent owners must have shortened the depth. It was SO small I couldn't believe a dresser and Daddy's foot locker would even fit in there. The dining room area, the bathrooms, the bedrooms. Everything seemed so tiny. I felt like Alice in Wonderland.
Coupled with the warped size experience was the time warp we went through upon entering. While it's true that subsequent owners and/or tenants had changed the green shag carpet, painted some rooms, removed a wall heater in a bathroom, added a couple of closets in the "master" bedroom, and knocked a couple of holes in the stucco in order to put in air conditioners, everything else was unchanged. Untouched. 32 years later (although certain features had been the same since it had been built in 1948): bathroom sinks, door knobs, bathroom light fixtures, switch plates, light covers, the hardwood floor in the living room (it obviously had not been waxed or treated since Mom and Dad moved out), the stove.
Above is the medicine cabinet in the main bathroom. I can still see Daddy's tin of Pepsodent tooth powder and his shaving brush and razor sitting on the shelves. You can see that no one has bothered to paint inside.
But all that was a mere drop in the time warp bucket compared to the basement. Time stood still down there.
Mom and Daddy put down this piece of linoleum when I was 7 or 8. It was in the play area they created for me, complete with a blackboard, table and chairs, and bookshelves. I remember that one of the conditions for occupancy was periodically mopping the linoleum.
I was terrified of going down these steps alone. I believed something would reach in between from underneath and grab my legs.
My playroom was in the area just past the steps, between the three columns. The linoleum is under the boards that are lying on their sides.
This is what remains of one of Daddy's packing blankets (he was in the furniture business) that was wrapped around this metal support pole so the car door wouldn't get banged up when we opened it.
There were other relics down there: the pie tin that covered the stove flue hole, the hand made wooden shelves, the drain in the floor where Daddy cleaned hundreds of fish, Mac's "experiment" room (and the location of the freezer that held Mom's frozen birds), a card of very old fuses hanging on the wall. But nothing beat finding my handiwork.
The doorway goes into the experiment room, the bluish part of the wall is where the freezer was. All of the graffiti was done by me. Turning and seeing this stopped me dead in my tracks.
Red Nikoban once held meaning. I remember that much, just not what the meaning was. This is part of a larger body of work that included the name of my elementary school-Sam Houston-and the initials of my high school-M.H.S.
L.M. My initials.
I mean, really. Why wouldn't someone at some point in time paint over this? Even if it had been some stellar piece of street art I would still think the owners or someone would've gotten rid of it. The fact that it's juvenile scribbling makes it even more baffling.
And yet, someone did paint over the hash marks on the bedroom door that showed our growth. Go figure.
One time ten years ago, Sissy and I actually walked around the house then entered the woods that lie adjacent to it. Afterwards, Sissy got a migraine. Bad ju ju?
Anyway, as part of the quest I was on while living in Murvul, I decided to ask our realtor if she would be willing to give up a half hour of her time to give us an insider's tour. She agreed. (Sissy and I can't decide if she's a glutton for punishment or if she agrees to work with us so she'll have good stories to tell at her realtors' conferences.)
So one day, after Sissy and I had finished wandering around the Foothills Fall Festival and I'd shown her the plaque that marked where Hale High School used to be and we'd walked the labyrinth I'd discovered in the old Presbyterian cemetery next to St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, we met our realtor at the house. She was a few minutes late, so we had time to get ourselves sufficiently weirded out by walking around the house and yard: the same garage door with the hole cut out for Tom, the cat, and still covered with the same flap of carpet; the same mailbox; Mom's concrete planter; the same storm doors; same porch light fixture. But if we thought these things were weird, just wait until we got inside the house.
Coupled with the warped size experience was the time warp we went through upon entering. While it's true that subsequent owners and/or tenants had changed the green shag carpet, painted some rooms, removed a wall heater in a bathroom, added a couple of closets in the "master" bedroom, and knocked a couple of holes in the stucco in order to put in air conditioners, everything else was unchanged. Untouched. 32 years later (although certain features had been the same since it had been built in 1948): bathroom sinks, door knobs, bathroom light fixtures, switch plates, light covers, the hardwood floor in the living room (it obviously had not been waxed or treated since Mom and Dad moved out), the stove.
Above is the medicine cabinet in the main bathroom. I can still see Daddy's tin of Pepsodent tooth powder and his shaving brush and razor sitting on the shelves. You can see that no one has bothered to paint inside.
But all that was a mere drop in the time warp bucket compared to the basement. Time stood still down there.
Mom and Daddy put down this piece of linoleum when I was 7 or 8. It was in the play area they created for me, complete with a blackboard, table and chairs, and bookshelves. I remember that one of the conditions for occupancy was periodically mopping the linoleum.
I was terrified of going down these steps alone. I believed something would reach in between from underneath and grab my legs.
My playroom was in the area just past the steps, between the three columns. The linoleum is under the boards that are lying on their sides.
This is what remains of one of Daddy's packing blankets (he was in the furniture business) that was wrapped around this metal support pole so the car door wouldn't get banged up when we opened it.
There were other relics down there: the pie tin that covered the stove flue hole, the hand made wooden shelves, the drain in the floor where Daddy cleaned hundreds of fish, Mac's "experiment" room (and the location of the freezer that held Mom's frozen birds), a card of very old fuses hanging on the wall. But nothing beat finding my handiwork.
The doorway goes into the experiment room, the bluish part of the wall is where the freezer was. All of the graffiti was done by me. Turning and seeing this stopped me dead in my tracks.
Red Nikoban once held meaning. I remember that much, just not what the meaning was. This is part of a larger body of work that included the name of my elementary school-Sam Houston-and the initials of my high school-M.H.S.
L.M. My initials.
I mean, really. Why wouldn't someone at some point in time paint over this? Even if it had been some stellar piece of street art I would still think the owners or someone would've gotten rid of it. The fact that it's juvenile scribbling makes it even more baffling.
And yet, someone did paint over the hash marks on the bedroom door that showed our growth. Go figure.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Born to be Wild
Actually, I don't know if I was born this way, but I quickly became a wild child at home. Now I can imagine my insides screaming, "See me! Pick me! I'm here!" At the time, I just remained in near-constant motion. If something could be climbed, I was on it. Wrestled? Ditto. Run around? Zoom! Kicked, punched, batted, poked, dragged, thrown...well, you get the picture.
One of my favorite Saturday indoor activities was to turn the T.V. on to the local channel for the Wide World of Wrestling. I would get all wound up because Ron and Don were cheating again and beating up my favorite wrestler, Whitey Caldwell (they'd hit him over the head with a garbage can or folding chair!). Then I'd get out my big orange stuffed bulldog and pounce on him and wrestle him all over the place. Mac told me many years later that I scared the shit out of him when I was doing that.
Of course, the ability to be wild indoors is somewhat limited by space constraints, but as you already know, I did manage to tear around the house on a roller skate boot. And I liked to climb sideways up the door frame, back against one side, feet pressed against the other, and "sit." But most of my wildness took place outside.
Again, you already know that one favorite outside activity was to race around the house, up the hill on one side, around the back, and down the other side, then dive and roll and stand up and take off again, over and over. I also did this on my bike, sans the diving and rolling part. At one point, I built some sort of ramp, just to keep things exciting.
I also enjoyed climbing the pine tree as high as I could go (30 feet?) and sit and look out over the tiny town of Maryville. One time I managed to coerce a neighbor up into that tree. To this day, she tells the story of the time I made her climb that tree. Of course, she tells it with more than a hint of pride that she actually did it. If I wasn't climbing the tree, I might climb up the antenna that ran alongside the chimney to get up on the roof then jump off one corner. "Geronimo!" I remember trying to "parachute" by using an umbrella. Unfortunately, since it was only about a ten foot drop, the umbrella didn't really have time to work.
In addition to more normal outdoor activities, such as riding my bike or going down the slide or playing on the swings or whirl-a-gig, I often took a football or baseball out to the field. There I would throw the ball as high and as far as I could (which was pretty far, if I do say so myself), then run as fast as I could to catch it at the other end.
Man, I wish I still had that kind of strength and energy! Just always in motion, always running headlong into this or that, full of myself. I miss that.
Oh, wait. That's kind of how I am now, only not so much with my body, just with my life. Wild Child, and proud of it.
One of my favorite Saturday indoor activities was to turn the T.V. on to the local channel for the Wide World of Wrestling. I would get all wound up because Ron and Don were cheating again and beating up my favorite wrestler, Whitey Caldwell (they'd hit him over the head with a garbage can or folding chair!). Then I'd get out my big orange stuffed bulldog and pounce on him and wrestle him all over the place. Mac told me many years later that I scared the shit out of him when I was doing that.
Of course, the ability to be wild indoors is somewhat limited by space constraints, but as you already know, I did manage to tear around the house on a roller skate boot. And I liked to climb sideways up the door frame, back against one side, feet pressed against the other, and "sit." But most of my wildness took place outside.
Again, you already know that one favorite outside activity was to race around the house, up the hill on one side, around the back, and down the other side, then dive and roll and stand up and take off again, over and over. I also did this on my bike, sans the diving and rolling part. At one point, I built some sort of ramp, just to keep things exciting.
I also enjoyed climbing the pine tree as high as I could go (30 feet?) and sit and look out over the tiny town of Maryville. One time I managed to coerce a neighbor up into that tree. To this day, she tells the story of the time I made her climb that tree. Of course, she tells it with more than a hint of pride that she actually did it. If I wasn't climbing the tree, I might climb up the antenna that ran alongside the chimney to get up on the roof then jump off one corner. "Geronimo!" I remember trying to "parachute" by using an umbrella. Unfortunately, since it was only about a ten foot drop, the umbrella didn't really have time to work.
In addition to more normal outdoor activities, such as riding my bike or going down the slide or playing on the swings or whirl-a-gig, I often took a football or baseball out to the field. There I would throw the ball as high and as far as I could (which was pretty far, if I do say so myself), then run as fast as I could to catch it at the other end.
Man, I wish I still had that kind of strength and energy! Just always in motion, always running headlong into this or that, full of myself. I miss that.
Oh, wait. That's kind of how I am now, only not so much with my body, just with my life. Wild Child, and proud of it.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Living in the Sadness
Ten years ago I took a leave of absence from teaching in California and moved to Maryville. I lived in the neighborhood where I grew up, a block from my childhood home and across the street from where I went to church nursery and church. (If you've seen the photo of me in my cowboy outfit, I'm standing outside the doors of that church.)
Back then, Mom, Daddy, and Mac were still alive and living together out at what we called The Farm, even though it hadn't really been used for that purpose since before Granddaddy bought it. Granddaddy and Grandmom moved there when I was about two. In fact, I have a very clear memory of being in someone's arms and looking down on the red clay in the hole where the foundation was being dug for the new house.
Grandmom died in 1977, a couple of weeks before Sissy got married. Granddaddy continued to live alone at the farm until 1981, when he moved in with Maxie in town. He gave Mom and Daddy the farm. They moved right after I left for Sarah Lawrence in August of that year. They had a couple of years of blissful country living before Mac showed up, unannounced, one day, desperate for a place to live because he had to get away from someone. And there he stayed for the next 25 years until he died in that house.
A little background for you.
Anyway, when I lived here ten years ago, they were all alive and I visited regularly. Daddy spent most of his time "recovering" (from Parkinson's) by lying in his bed and Mom frequently asked me questions like, "Now, who are your parents?" and fed Daisy, the cat, bananas (Alzheimer's), but Mac was, at that point still relatively pleasant to be around.
I actually moved back in order to spend time with Mom and Daddy and, I thought, to help out. Since I hadn't been there in a while (a year or so), it was very obvious to me that things had deteriorated a lot since I had last visited, but I quickly realized that my assessment of the situation was a bit too realistic for everyone at that point. They (and by they I mean Daddy, Mac, and Sissy) were still living in the land of Things Aren't That Bad.
When I discovered that Mom had put the pajamas Sissy had given Daddy for Christmas (and that had been missing for 8 months) in the freezer, Mac's response was that anyone could've made that mistake. In my opinion, that's bad enough, but add to that ludicrous response the fact that he hadn't noticed them in there, nor had he noticed the 40 or 50 unwrapped hamburger patties sitting in the freezer and, well, I think you've got a pretty precarious situation. He was supposed to be taking care of them.
Anyway, what's my point? Ten years ago, they were all alive, but those seven months were some of the hardest of my life in terms of dealing with their deteriorating health and my siblings' resistance to almost everything I felt needed to be done or tried to do in order to deal with the situation. Basically, after several months of fighting an uphill battle with them, I gave up and moved back to California.
Ten years later, here I am again, living in Maryville, not quite as close to where I grew up as last time, but within spitting distance. Only, of course, everyone is dead except Sissy. The Farm doesn't even exist anymore, having been donated and carted off to some unknown destination.
I've been spending much of my free time these past two months walking and biking around town, through my old neighborhood and ones where friends lived; past stores and churches; the elementary, junior and high schools; through the cemetery where my grandparents are buried; the college; and, of course, past The Farm with no house. No family and no house.
I've felt compelled to visit and re-visit. It's almost ritualistic.
The other day I stopped in front of the house and yard where I grew up and stared for the longest time, remembering. Remembering everything that I did there, everything that happened. Gone. Ghosts. All that I was left staring at was a yard. And a house. The past does not exist.
A friend has told me that she feels I am very brave, coming here and living in the sadness of the loss, of the past. She is right, but not about the bravery. Just about facing the sadness. Really, if I'd known that's what I was about to do, I wouldn't have done it. After all, I've managed to avoid it for more than 40 years. I just thought I was coming to buy a house.
"Surprise!" says the Universe.
Back then, Mom, Daddy, and Mac were still alive and living together out at what we called The Farm, even though it hadn't really been used for that purpose since before Granddaddy bought it. Granddaddy and Grandmom moved there when I was about two. In fact, I have a very clear memory of being in someone's arms and looking down on the red clay in the hole where the foundation was being dug for the new house.
Grandmom died in 1977, a couple of weeks before Sissy got married. Granddaddy continued to live alone at the farm until 1981, when he moved in with Maxie in town. He gave Mom and Daddy the farm. They moved right after I left for Sarah Lawrence in August of that year. They had a couple of years of blissful country living before Mac showed up, unannounced, one day, desperate for a place to live because he had to get away from someone. And there he stayed for the next 25 years until he died in that house.
A little background for you.
Anyway, when I lived here ten years ago, they were all alive and I visited regularly. Daddy spent most of his time "recovering" (from Parkinson's) by lying in his bed and Mom frequently asked me questions like, "Now, who are your parents?" and fed Daisy, the cat, bananas (Alzheimer's), but Mac was, at that point still relatively pleasant to be around.
I actually moved back in order to spend time with Mom and Daddy and, I thought, to help out. Since I hadn't been there in a while (a year or so), it was very obvious to me that things had deteriorated a lot since I had last visited, but I quickly realized that my assessment of the situation was a bit too realistic for everyone at that point. They (and by they I mean Daddy, Mac, and Sissy) were still living in the land of Things Aren't That Bad.
When I discovered that Mom had put the pajamas Sissy had given Daddy for Christmas (and that had been missing for 8 months) in the freezer, Mac's response was that anyone could've made that mistake. In my opinion, that's bad enough, but add to that ludicrous response the fact that he hadn't noticed them in there, nor had he noticed the 40 or 50 unwrapped hamburger patties sitting in the freezer and, well, I think you've got a pretty precarious situation. He was supposed to be taking care of them.
Anyway, what's my point? Ten years ago, they were all alive, but those seven months were some of the hardest of my life in terms of dealing with their deteriorating health and my siblings' resistance to almost everything I felt needed to be done or tried to do in order to deal with the situation. Basically, after several months of fighting an uphill battle with them, I gave up and moved back to California.
Ten years later, here I am again, living in Maryville, not quite as close to where I grew up as last time, but within spitting distance. Only, of course, everyone is dead except Sissy. The Farm doesn't even exist anymore, having been donated and carted off to some unknown destination.
I've been spending much of my free time these past two months walking and biking around town, through my old neighborhood and ones where friends lived; past stores and churches; the elementary, junior and high schools; through the cemetery where my grandparents are buried; the college; and, of course, past The Farm with no house. No family and no house.
I've felt compelled to visit and re-visit. It's almost ritualistic.
The other day I stopped in front of the house and yard where I grew up and stared for the longest time, remembering. Remembering everything that I did there, everything that happened. Gone. Ghosts. All that I was left staring at was a yard. And a house. The past does not exist.
A friend has told me that she feels I am very brave, coming here and living in the sadness of the loss, of the past. She is right, but not about the bravery. Just about facing the sadness. Really, if I'd known that's what I was about to do, I wouldn't have done it. After all, I've managed to avoid it for more than 40 years. I just thought I was coming to buy a house.
"Surprise!" says the Universe.
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