Category Archives: Memories

Home Sweet Home.

The house I grew up in was green. Not green like grass or pine trees, not seafoam or hunter or Kelly. No, my house was puke green. When I got a bit older, I started referring to it as the color of bile. I felt like that sounded more sophisticated.

The whole house was falling apart. There wasn’t a single room that wasn’t in need of repairs, though some areas were worse than others. The kitchen was a disaster, with the sink falling into the cabinet that was supposed to support it and a leak in the ceiling from the bathroom directly above. The basement took in water every time it rained. On a good day it was only up to my ankles and on a bad it was up to my knees, but every time something would go floating by while we bailed and I’d wonder why I’d thought I could store anything down there in the first place.

There’s more, but I won’t bore you with the details.

From the outside one might guess at the condition of the interior but could just as easily assume it wasn’t so bad. The house needed a paint job and some updating of the doors and windows, but it wasn’t unlike many of the older homes in the neighborhood.

When we sold the house, we were cited for the illegal wheelchair ramp my grandfather had installed so we could get my mother out every now and again. The ramp was too short and steep, a hazard really, and one frosty winter morning I fell off of the side with no railing and nearly broke my elbow. When it rains I can still feel that injury nearly 20 years later. It’s just one of the ways home has stayed with me long after I left.

The town inspector also slapped the garage with a bright orange sticker, officially marking it condemned. We joked that we were surprised that the whole house wasn’t slated for demolition. It wasn’t really a funny joke, but rather the kind we would make amongst ourselves to deflect from the sting and stigma associated with living as we did for so long.

Over the years I’ve had little occasion to drive by the home I grew up in. It wasn’t on my usual route and that was just fine. The house is situated on the corner of a dead end street and on the other end of that road is a parking lot for some offices. My dentist is in that office and sometimes after an appointment I’d walk to the far side of the lot and look down at the street that was the playground of my youth. I’d look at the houses my friends grew up in, the one where the man allegedly hung himself from the exterior second floor balcony, the house that caught fire and was rebuilt, the house whose number ended in 1/2, which I always found amusing. My old house isn’t visible from the parking lot but I know it’s there.

Lately I’ve driven through my neighborhood more frequently. Life takes me down that way and I look at the house from time to time, wondering what’s going on in there. It’s a tasteful yellow now, not too bright. There is a new front door and a new garage. The retaining wall on the east end of the property is still falling down, a throwback to the old days. Whoever lives there looks like they take care of the place.

Sometimes I think about going up and ringing the doorbell, asking if I can come in and see how things have changed like you see on TV. I don’t know if it’s owner occupied or if it’s being used as a rental. It’s been thirteen years since I’ve set foot inside and it’s possible the people who live there never knew what it was like back then. Of course, it’s equally possible the owner lives there and would know my past. Thinking about that stops me from approaching the house.

There’s little to be gained from seeing who lives there now, whether they are a happy family or miserable like we were. The structure may still be weary and battle-scarred from all that went on inside its walls. A morbid curiosity leaves me wondering, but my practical self knows that house is still haunted and some things are just better left alone.

November and December

I sit here in anticipation of the days that bring me down.

My mother’s birthday is less than a week away. She would have turned 66 this year. This will be the fifth birthday she’s missed since she died.

The anniversary of my grandfather’s death is about a week later. He’s been gone eight years. I never need to count the years – I simply look to my son who missed sharing this earth with his great-grandfather by about six weeks.

December hosts both my grandmother’s birthday and her deathday. The last time I saw her she had just turned 75. Twelve days later she was dead. That was sixteen years ago. I’ve almost accepted that the last time I saw her we argued. I still think she was being unreasonable and I’m sure, if we could ask her, she would still think I was being disrespectful. Maybe not though. Maybe time enough for both of us to calm down would have changed the conversation. But I’ll never know and I’ll always remain a disappointment for doing what I knew in my heart at the time was the thing I had to do. Grandma was forgiving and loving. I never held her scorn for long. I like to hope that would have been true in this instance and so many things would have been different.

My grandfather and I shared many traits and our stubbornness and resultant ability to hold a grudge were two of them. We could anger one another so easily and in a time when I was walking away from anything that was hurting my heart and soul, I walked away from him. I won’t say that turning my back on him was wrong, but I will tell you my inability to turn back around, to try to work it out, to try to forgive him for hurting me will always be one of my greatest regrets. I wonder, though, if his not coming back for me was one of his. We talked some before he died but it wasn’t the same. I’ve heard it said it’s never too late to make things right with people if you can just communicate and the truth is that is not true. Sometimes it is too late. I opened up my heart again too late.

These were my mother’s parents. When she couldn’t sustain her children on her own, these are the people my mother turned to for help. My grandparents kept us fed and housed and safe and warm when my mother couldn’t do it. Yet, when my mother’s toxicity reached levels I could no longer withstand, what I lost was not my mother, but my grandparents. In my efforts to untangle the mess that my relationship with my mother had become, there were casualties I had not intended. If I’m being honest, I understand it. They were simply protecting their daughter as they always had and perhaps, as parents often are, unable to see that I was not the enemy.

I’m painfully deep into writing about all of them. They have not been far from my mind much at all lately and the anticipation of the days reserved for their memory haunt me with such force this year I’m crushed by it. The distance of time allowed for the clarity to write the story but it has done nothing to heal the wounds. Not this time of year anyway. Not in November and December.

Spectacle

On an August afternoon in the summer of 1986, just before fifth grade, I rode my bike to my best friend’s house. In my pocket was a note for my friend’s mom written by my own mom. I was instructed not to read it, but this was apparently before she realized she should seal envelopes she didn’t want me to open. The note explained there had been an incident and now there was a restraining order. My dad wasn’t allowed to come near me. If he did, my friend’s mom should call the police.

I started school that September armed with a similar note. Dad was not an emergency contact. I should never be released from school into his care. He was dangerous.

I felt like a spectacle. I felt like everyone knew things about me, about my family, that I didn’t want people to know. Every time they looked at me I could feel their thoughts weighing on me. Everyone knew, and now they were looking at me in a way only the neighbors previously had.

It took me years to figure out that this is why I’ve always been preoccupied with the notion of others thinking of me. Whether they liked me or not wasn’t really the issue. The more I thought about that, the more I realized I would just prefer people didn’t think of me at all. Thinking about me opened doors that felt better left closed.

It’s better to just stay below the radar. It’s safer over there.

The trouble is that I don’t have that kind of personality. I keep thrusting myself into spotlights, wondering how the hell I got there, then wondering what people are thinking. And even when I’m playing the wallflower, life happens. Hiding isn’t really easy for me, so I’ve had to work at being comfortable being seen. It takes practice, and effort, and intestinal fortitude.

I’m getting there, but maybe not really.

***

The past few weeks have been full of ups and downs. We had two wonderful family vacations. We also had a death in the family, a car accident, and summer colds. I’ve had to explain to people what’s been going on. Camp counselors needed to be made aware of all the things that could be contributing to my kid being out of sorts. I’ve had to explain to my job why I’m taking an early lunch or I need to leave 15 minutes early. I’ve made multiple calls to the insurance adjuster and texted a zillion questions to my friend whose husband is fixing my car. I’ve had to ask for help in my personal life based on so much schedule upheaval.

Mostly through no fault of my own, I’ve directed way too much attention toward myself lately.

I feel uneasy.

I feel like every point of contact I make, the other person is thinking, “Oh no. Not her again. What is it this time?”

I feel like I should hide for awhile, but I also know I probably can’t.

I know everyone has months like this where things are hectic. I know having a kid means constantly updating his various caregivers on our home life. I know this is not the same as what happened in 1986. I know it. But still somewhere, in the back of my mind…

***

I am a spectacle. I will always be a spectacle.

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In an exciting turn of events, this post took home crowd favorite at the yeah write weekly writing challenge this week. Thanks to everyone who voted!