January 6, 2007

David's Ladder

In the post Time Out, I put up this picture. It was kind of an unofficial Wordless Wednesday thing ... today I realize that I need to add words to it. (This is the main reason I do not participate in Wordless Wednesday ... I'd never be able to leave it alone every week!)

This is a spot at Potato Creek State Park in Indiana, not very far from where I live. This particular bend in the path, reminds me of Lake Tenkiller, where my grandparents lived while I was a teenager. I can remember always looking at the far shore when we'd walk down to the lake. Thinking what a mystery it always was … the same way I used to think about "tomorrow" as a kid. Knowing that the far shore was a concept, not a destination. Cuz once you arrived at tomorrow or at the far shore … it was no longer tomorrow or the far shore. It was today. It was here.

The distance was far more interesting than here and now.

I enjoyed the shrouded mystery of the far shore in ways that I still can't articulate.

But this picture in particular reminds me of a short story that I wrote back in the 90s. My first thought was that I'd make this an extended entry and post the story as well ... but I just pulled it out of the filing cabinet ... and well, umm, it sucks. The concept was really good, but the writing was ... well, that of a young 20something trying to write flash fiction. Trying to write a hybrid of story and Literature (spoken with that shitty stuck-up English Professor As King of All Knowledge accent).

So, of course, since it's a good concept, I had to re-write it. And since I was more focused on writing this post than re-conceptualizing the story at this moment, it's still quite short and not quite as fleshed out as I would like it. But it gives you the point.

"Ladder in the Lake" (opens in a new window)

It struck me Sunday, when I went down to Potato Creek again ... that this spot is very much like where David goes swimming. Of course, it was darker then ... and ready to storm.

But this misty far shore, that place where you can never actually arrive, strikes me as very much the kind of place David was trying to reach.

The problem, of course, being that once you reach the far shore, the place you came from has now become the far shore.

The other problem being that if you focus too hard on the far shore, you miss a lot of other things. The danger signs of an impending storm. The actual distance. How you can manage to make the crossing. What you might actually find when you get there.

And, sometimes you just don't have the strength you once thought you did.

And you settle for something in the middle that ought to be good enough. But that "good enough" is sometimes just a mirage, a story you tell yourself so that you don't feel bad about not embarking on the full journey into the Misty Mountains or through the Mines of Moria.
(No, I have NO idea, why the Tolkien books suddenly popped into my head ... I suppose this picture somehow reminded me of Bilbo and the others heading off to the Grey Havens or whatever it was. And, no, I haven't seen the movies. I refuse to see them. I love the books.)

Sometimes it does feel like there's a ladder in the middle of the lake, ready to take us to some magical otherworld which will somehow make things better.

But like the far shore, that ladder is much more of a journey than it is a destination.

Just a bit of rambling pseudo-philosophy for the weekend.

Peace.

Posted by Red Monkey at 6:21 PM | Comments (3) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

December 28, 2006

Coyote and the Spider

First: a word of warning. Don't ever write a post whilst charging a brand new laptop battery and then unplug the computer because the new battery is charged.

Yeah. It was like that.

POOF!

Anyhow, as I was saying earlier, before the battery ate my post, we moved to Austin, Texas, sometime just after I turned five. This was by far my favourite of the six homes and five towns we'd lived in. There were no windows in the front two bedrooms which faced the street. (If you look at the picture, you'll see what I mean.) I had the bedroom that looked over the little covered entry to our front door and I loved it. I could see everyone who came and went to our house ... provided, of course, I was in my room at the time. It certainly meant that I had a good watch for any babysitters ... or for any visiting relatives.

One Halloween when I was about seven or so, I got some little plastic black spiders. Nowadays you usually see these as little rings ... I think they're less of a choking hazard that way, but back in the day, these were simply spiders.

I kind of need to back up for a moment and remind you that my mother is not a lover of nature. In fact, the outdoors terrifies her. Horrifies her. (Don't forget the Possum Story.) Naturally, in Austin, then, she was terrified of scorpions and black widow spiders. These atrocities were, of course, around every corner and underneath every rock.

With all the thinking that goes into an elementary student's decorations, I put some of the black plastic spiders in my window screen. You know, where spiders GO.

So the next time my mom and I are coming home from somewhere, I am more than a little bit startled when she SHRIEKS and points at my window.

Apparently she thought the stationary, shiny, plastic spiders were real.

As any good lower elementary school student, I fell onto the front porch and rolled on the cement, laughing. I think I nearly peed my pants, I was laughing so hard.

Of course at that age, if you do it ONCE and it's funny ... doing it MORE is even MORE funny.

So, every few days, the spiders would go back in the window and every few days, Mom would SCREAM as she once more saw the plastic spiders in my window.

After a few weeks of this, I was absolutely, positively FORBIDDEN to put the spiders back in the window.

The problem with this, of course, is that I was a very creative ... and Calvin-like ... child. So, I did not put the spiders in the window after being forbidden to do so.

I put them on Mom's pillow instead.

I knew when she went to sleep every night for about a week. She woke me up with that scream. And I chortled myself back to sleep.

Eventually, this too, came to a stop.

Fast forward to Friday, December 22, 2006. My mom calls to ask if we are still coming to Christmas, which I found puzzling until the other half reminded me that we had at least two Christmases when the weather kept us from traveling. As Mom and I are chatting, somehow, the subject of the little plastic spiders comes up, gets discussed and Mom chastises me whilst laughing.

Fast forward two more days. My cousins and I are going to go out and about and buy stocking stuffers at Foy's Five and Dime in downtown Dayton, Ohio. This is actually something between a Halloween store and a candy store ... and an old fashioned five and dime. It's incredible. I picked up a tiny kite that was a Thunderbird plane, I picked up a good old-fashioned Nerf ball (even though it's not Nerf brand ), some good candies, some bad candies (salt and lemon ... very little lemon ... LOADS of salt ... and they're pop rocks ... if you can make it thru the salt ... did i mention LOADS and LOADS of salt?).

And little plastic black spider rings.

Oh yeah.

I went there.

Naturally, I also purchased a single black spider ring. I carefully snipped the ring part off and at the earliest opportunity, I planted it in Mom's suitcase.

And I hovered, waiting for her to open it. Which she did.

And she didn't see it. Several times.

So, of course, I had to re-situate things. I unrolled her PJ bottoms since they were a nice light colour, and re-placed the plastic spider carefully. Showcased it.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

And then, as my aunt and my partner and I are all sitting around in the living room, I hear it. A huge scream, followed quickly by "EEEEENNNNNNNNNDERRRRRRRRRRRRR!"

LMFAO

It's just as good 30 years later. I might be 38 chronologically, but ya know ... you're only as old as you think you are.

I damn near wet my pants I was laughing so hard.

Ahhhh, just like old times.

Never mind that no one else found it quite as funny as I did. Mom got the joke. She remembered. I remembered.

And it was a damn good memory.

Posted by Red Monkey at 4:15 PM | Comments (5) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

December 12, 2006

Dusk ... text

Since I was tiny, nothing has calmed me more quickly or better than dusk in the woods, particularly if there's a creek, river or lake nearby as well.

So, when it was 65 degrees on the last day of November, I immediately headed out to Potato Creek State Park.

Actually, when I left for lunch that day, I was a bit out of sorts. Well, more than a bit. And as I walked out into the gloriously beautiful weather on my way to get some fast lunch, I thought ... I wonder ... I wonder if Potato Creek is too far to drive.

The short answer is that it really is. It's about 20 minutes from work, maybe 15 with the way I tend to drive and if the lights are with me. So that was 10-15 minutes to get to the fast food place ... at least 30 minutes driving time round trip ... an optimistic 15 minutes to spend in the park. Hmmm.

I left the fast food joint (Taco Hell ... hey, there's no freaking decent fast Mexican food up here in the land of ice, snow and freaking hoosiers - just for you, Mike, just for you, you big cheesehead). And I'm bemoaning the fact that I don't have ...

I passed the turn back in to work.

Apparently my impulses were simply going to take over for lunch today. My first thought was, well, I don't have to drive all the way out to the park. I could just drive out to the country area where we lived a few years ago. Lots of trees and nature and such. That'll do.

Drove past there, too.

Drove all the way out to Potato Creek, forgetting that it would be a longish drive to a parking lot where I could eat (too wet outside to sit on any of the picnic tables), and then head into the woods.

Look at the clock, decide I have 15 minutes to walk. (This was a VERY optimistic estimate.) I head out into the trails. I have no watch, left the cell phone in the office ... since this was a very unplanned excursion. It's kind of misty out, the trails are full of slippery fallen leaves and it doesn't take more than five steps before I can feel all the tension beginning to leach out of my muscles. I have forgotten, though, that this segment of trails is very short and does not really go to the area of Worster Lake that I most enjoy. That's okay. A few minutes here have already restored a feeling of peace and contentment that I've been lacking for weeks.

All too soon, I decide that I cannot push the time limit any further and I turn around, head back to the car. EEK! I way overstayed. I have five minutes to get back to work.

On the way back, I can't shake that feeling of being drawn into the nature around me. The rest of my day is surreal with the fluorescent lights, flickering computer screens and the constant sound of keyboards chattering away.

I stop at the house after work only long enough to pick up my camera and a fresh pop. I get back to the park by 4 or so, begin with the short trail because I had noticed several things that I wanted to take pictures of. Then, I head up to the real trails.

I've got my cell phone with me this time ... more so I can keep track of time than anything else. Reception isn't great, and frankly, I don't want to talk to anyone anyway. I want to be here, in this moment, in this place.

Squirrels, chipmunks, a hawk. Ducks, geese. A blue heron (or a crane, I'm never quite sure which).

The heron lets me get unbelievably close and thanks to the goodness of a 1 GB card, I snap shot after shot after shot, hoping that some will turn out in the dim light. Apparently the next time I go trekking in the overcast and dusk, I really need to bring a tripod as a walking cane, though.

I walk a little further on, to the place you see in the post below. It's dusk and I am looking out over the water at the far shore. The mist hangs in the trees, blurring everything with a wistful fog of potential and regret both. The trees that once stood on dry land and now are only poles complicating navigation on the lake. Providing bits of interest ... bits of rest, a place to steady yourself for a moment before moving on.

Times like this I feel like I could hop in a rowboat or a canoe and simply be on the lake forever, dreaming of the limitless possibilities and potentials. Rocked by the gentle winds on the lake, creating ripples of waves ... drifting with the currents.

Of course the reality of that is a lot more bleak. Umm, food? drinking water? bathroom facilities????

But staring out across the lake, listening to the birds, the squirrels and the water. Transporting myself to the middle of the lake for just a time, staring wistfully at the mystery of the misty shrouded far shore ...

I have to shake it off ... get back to the daily grind. But, even though it's in the 40s and raining outside now ... I still can get lost in that peace and potential just staring at the photo and remembering.

Posted by Red Monkey at 10:23 AM | Comments (3) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

December 5, 2006

Hall of Presidents

Something during a Google search today got me to thinking about the trip I made to DisneyWorld when I was seven. (No, this isn't some long rambling post about a vacation - hang on, there's more to this.)

This was back in the day, when you were issued a booklet of coupons and you had to budget the different letter coupons so you could go on the rides you really wanted to go on. For example, I think Space Mountain was an E ride and I hoarded my final E coupon for hours until we neared the famed roller coaster ride.

One of the "rides" that I really wanted to see was the Hall of Presidents. I know, I know. Dude, I've already said it: I'm a geek. I thought that seeing robots was cool and I desperately wanted to see Abraham Lincoln speak. I got a thrill just thinking about watching a lanky robot stand and utter something from the famed liberator. The rest of the family thought their coupons were far better spent on things like the Teacup ride and that cloying Small World ride. (That my sister, who'd begged to go on it. . . what? oh yeah. No rambling. Okay.)

Finally, I pestered Mom enough about this ride that she handed me the map and helped me figure out exactly where the Hall of Presidents was in relation to where we were. Since no one else wanted to go with me, Mom decided that at 7 I was big enough to walk through the huge amusement park alone and go see the show. We were to meet up again at some ride I've long since forgotten after the show was over. Now, Mom was pretty over-protective most of the time and I'm not really sure why she thought that a little kid would be perfectly safe heading across the park alone. I guess because it was Disney World and what harm could come to a kid at Disney World? Or maybe she was just exhausted from my constant updates about how much longer until the next Hall of Presidents show. To quote the Tootsie Roll Pop commercial, "The world may never know."

So, I'm both thrilled and terrified to be heading across the park alone. I mean, this is a rite of passage here: I've got to officially be a big kid if I can navigate my way across this park and see a show by myself. But I've also heard plenty of Stranger Danger commercials and seen enough posters to know that kidnappers can appear anywhere and you have to be really aware of your surroundings. I was mentally trying to look everywhere at once and to try to figure out what Hong Kong Phooey moves I could do if attacked. Hey, it was the 70s, everyone was paranoid.

Finally, I arrive in front of the show's little building and I'm just so excited. I can't believe it. I'm going to hear Lincoln free the slaves. This is the coolest thing ever. I'm practically gibbering to myself in excitement. We'd been taught only that Lincoln had freed the slaves and that he was a great hero -- no one had bothered to mention to a bunch of little kids that the whole thing, that the whole civil war, in fact, was more complicated than that. Lincoln was a hero for freeing the oppressed.

I slide into the big theatre and make my way to a seat kind of in the back of the theatre, but not all the way in the back. I want to be close enough to see my hero. I keep checking my watch, with the little bee's eyes that move back and forth with each second that ticks away. How much longer now? When is it going to start?

Before it does, I hear a couple of people sit down in the row right behind me. I slump down in my theatre seat. Are they going to kidnap me? I'm here all alone and there's no adults I know nearby at all. I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Oh no! They're black.

I slump even further into my seat.

And then my brain kicks into overdrive.

"Now wait a minute," my brain says to me. "Why are you here, exactly?"

"I want to see Lincoln."

"You want to see Lincoln do what?" my brain keeps prodding.

Oh. Oh yeah. What the hell is wrong with me?

I look back over my shoulder again. It's a young couple. Maybe in their twenties - it's hard for a seven-year-old to gauge the age of adults, after all. Yeah, they're black. And young. And in love. They nudge each other and give me a smile.

You know, that was a really simple thing on their part. They could have ignored this terrified white kid, afraid that any nice action they made would have repercussions for them. Being young people, they could have tried to tease me or make me smile with a funny face. But they just gave me a little smile.

I smiled back.

I relaxed. I sat upright in my seat. I was here to see my hero free the slaves. Blacks weren't any different than whites. There was no reason to be afraid of them; they were nice people.

When the show was over and I stood up, the young couple was already gone. I don't think I even heard them leave. I do remember being a lot more confident as I wound my way back through the park to the rendezvous point and waited for my family. I didn't tell anyone about the young couple or how scared I'd been. I was embarrassed that I'd been scared at all.

I grew up in Texas during the 70s. I read Dr. Seuss books; I watched Free to Be You and Me, Sesame Street and Electric Company. I didn't know who Martin Luther King, Jr. was, but I wanted to be a part of the civil rights movement. Of course, I was born too late - the civil rights movement was over. (I thought it was, anyway.) My Dad used the n-word. The Klan.

And somehow, that one smile solidified my whole outlook to all people. A pretty simple thing, a smile.

Like I've said, I was raised primarily in Texas in the 70s. I started school in Austin and ended at a high school in Arlington (yuppie-ville between Dallas and Fort Worth).

At my first elementary school, Pillow, I don't remember ever seeing a black student. We had two students, twins, who were either atheists or, I think now, they may have been Muslim. I was in first grade when I first met Rex and the finer points of religion just weren't a big deal to me. After all, I'd met Jon Comb in kindergarten and he was Jewish and it hadn't been any big deal. Whatever. Seemed to me like there were 18 million different flavors of religion and they were all sure they were the right one. My opinion at the time was very child-simple: God was all-loving, so anyone who tried honestly to do good and right would eventually be all right with God.

So anyhow, the point is we didn't have a whole lot of diversity in my school. I didn't really notice much. I had my good friend, Nancy, and she lived down the street from us. Her brother, David, was my exact same age -- we had the same birthday. I'd known them for ages before I said something to Nancy about wishing that my skin tanned so nicely like hers did. I have always had that pasty Irish complexion, complete with freckles. Nancy's skin was just a nice, tanned color -- not real dark, but not so glow-in-the-dark white either.

When I told my mom what I'd told Nancy, she just spluttered. "You didn't!!"

"Did. I do wish my skin would tan like that."

No one had bothered to inform me that Nancy was half Mexican. Once they did, I still wasn't sure what the BFD was. Great, you get a Mexican and a white person together and you get a built-in tan. Why don't all white people marry Mexicans? All white people want tans. Wouldn't it just be easier to marry a Mexican instead of trying to "cook" your skin into that color?

I really didn't get it.

And my mother was appalled with me.

Evidently there'd been some fuss in the neighborhood when the Tapias first moved in. The scandal! A mixed couple. (I thought that all couples were mixed - one man and one woman. Whatever. I thought adults were completely insane.) And I learned interesting new words, like wetback. But, everyone seemed to like the Tapias now, so I assumed that everything was all right.

But the real eye-opener for me was the first day of second grade. You see, we lived several miles away from Pillow Elementary. The Balcones Woods subdivision was probably a good 5 or more miles away. And you had to drive on the highway (always a big deal in my mom's mind), and you had to drive past an active quarry.

Despite the car pool, the parents complained about this drive constantly. They kept demanding a bus to take us to the school, but it didn't happen in kindergarten and seemed to be getting closer by the end of first grade.

So, after the trip to Disney World and watching Lincoln in the Hall of Presidents, I was ready to go back to school just a few months later. Our school handed each teacher about 30 students at random levels of learning and development and this year I had been moved to another class different from most of the kids I'd had in my class the year before. And after my Disney World experience, that was much more scary to me than the fact that I also had a black teacher for the first time.

When we walked in that first day, there was a folding table set up just inside the building with a posterboard hanging from it. It said "Stop the Busing."

"But I thought we wanted a bus!" I exclaimed to my mom.

She frantically tried to get me to shutup.

"But why? I thought you were tired of taking me to school." I was trying to whisper -- you know, the kind of whisper actors use to reach the back of the theatre, but still feels like a whisper? That type of whisper that seems to be the specialty of every little kid.

Well, my response relaxed the tense parent behind the table. And despite Mom's promise to explain it all to me later, it wasn't until years later that I figured out what busing these parents wanted to stop. And it made me sick. Every student at that elementary school that I can remember was white. We had some latino kids, and we had a couple of kids who got to sit down during the Pledge of Allegience (the whole Under God thing -- don't start, that'll be another post later and you can scream about it then). Of course, we lived in Texas, so there were lots of latinos everywhere. Enough so that I didn't realize that Mexicans (like my best friend who lived down the street from me) were another "race." I didn't realize that some white folk didn't like Mexicans or latinos of any flavor. I thought my friend would be extra-popular because she had a great tan.

Two weeks into the school year I was told that there was an opening at the Catholic school and was shuttled off to "shop" for my uniform.

Was it because busing appeared to be imminent? Was it because my teacher was black? Was there really a "sudden" opening at the private school?

At the time I was terribly confused. Here we were about to get buses and now Mom suddenly wants to carpool. And I have to wear a uniform. And go to Mass ... was it every day or just Fridays? I think it was just Fridays. We had to go to this church that I'd never been to and go try on uniforms -- some green plaid jumper with a white shirt. Before I could burst into tears over the jumper -- we'd already had this discussion in kindergarten when I insisted on wearing jeans or pants every day -- Mom told me that we were buying one jumper and I could also wear a white shirt and green jeans. Now that's a progressive Catholic school for the mid 70s.

And what I didn't understand then or now was this: if we were so religious as to send me to a Catholic school, how Christian was it to be that way to other people? to be so scared of them and for no reason at all?

I don't remember any black kids at the Catholic school. I had a latina teacher, but didn't see any black teachers there.

I hated it there.

I was utterly miserable the whole year I spent there.

And I don't think I saw a single black student there. Certainly no Jewish kids like Jon. Or atheist or Muslim kids like Rex. Just a bunch of pasty-white kids. And school was every bit as boring here as at Pillow. In fact, I was a bit behind where I had been in the public school.

I asked my Mom once why she didn't want me to be part of busing - either bused to another school or a school where others were bused in.

"Because I knew that someone would tease a kid - a black kid call a white kid something or a white kid call a black kid something - and you would be right there in the middle of it, defending someone. I didn't want you to get hurt."

Well, she probably had a point. I would have been. I didn't understand that type of "teasing" and I always tried to make friends with the underdogs and the kids that no one else would take to. And I never knew when to back down, so I probably would have gotten the heck whupped out of me.

But you know, the deal is that none of this stuff changed how I felt after that smile at Disney World.

Those two events ... the trip to the Hall of Presidents and the sudden turnaround about busing us to school ... shaped my life more than I could have imagined at that age. The two events together solidified something that I had been struggling with for ages ...

I learned that I could not trust my parents.

Now, before someone screams, let me explain that a little bit further. It wasn't just because I realized prejudice was wrong ... it was because I was finally starting to see through some of the mixed messages I was getting from them. Mom would tell me that black people were the same as white, but she'd also lock her car doors if she saw a black person walking along the street. She'd tell me "you can be anything you want to be" and then tell me I couldn't be a cub scout or an indian guide. She'd poke me in church during the scripture on obeying your parents, but then she'd give me direct orders to disobey my father. And, honestly, Dad was giving me the same mixed messages.

At that point, I came to the conclusion that there are good people and bad people in the world and a lot of shades in between ... but you could not figure out which people were to be avoided by how they looked. My father looked like a great businessman in his fancy suits. He looked like Gerald Ford, enough so that in the late seventies, women in the grocery store wouldn't believe him when he said he was not the ex-president.

It didn't really matter that he was white or that someone else was black or tan or kind of yellow. You learned more about people by comparing what they said with what they did ... and, of course, by watching their eyes. And Dad's eyes scared me. Mom's eyes seemed somewhat blank and empty. I began to distance myself from them.

That wound up saving my life.

Well, that and the bookmobile.

Posted by Red Monkey at 4:19 AM | Comments (6) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

December 2, 2006

For Paddy

Long ago, when the people were still new in this world, Coyote came up to his brother Wolf and said, "Brother, why must they sicken? They struggle hard to please this world, but their efforts only bring some pain and sickness even when they honor the earth as they should. Can't we at least take away sickness from them?"

Wolf did not look up from his work, but answered, "Sickening serves to remind them that everything in this world is fleeting. If they do not have this reminder, they grow lax and think they have all the time in the world for their own cares. Sickening reminds them to take care of each other so that someone is there to take care of them during their need."

Knowing how wise Wolf was, Coyote determined to watch the People further and find some way to help them. He watched how they struggled to raise crops and to hunt. Their days and months revolved around gathering necessities to keep them fed. He returned to Wolf and asked, "Brother I understand why they must sicken and see that you are right. But must they also toil so hard and so long just for nourishment? Surely we can help them and provide their food for them."

Again Wolf did not look up from his work. This time, he was silent for a long time until Coyote began to get restive, his bristle-tail twitching with the strain of trying to be patient. "If they do not work to stay alive, Little Brother, they quickly forget the beauty and harmony in this world and their walk becomes unbalanced and eventually destructive."

Coyote thought about this for a while and said nothing more to Wolf. After a time, he went back to the People, watched them suffer with sickness and with war and then returned to Wolf again.

"Brother, I have seen how those who do not stay connected to the earth and strive to call forth nourishment from her do destroy that which they no longer understand. But the People's lives are so short and filled with pain. Why can't their lives be long like ours? Why must they die?"

Wolf paused for a moment in his work, but did not look at Coyote. "It is to remind them that life is precious, brother. When it is fast and short, they value it more and treasure each other."

Coyote sat with his brother for some time and then, as his brother continued in his work, Coyote turned and walked to where Wolf's cubs were playing. He observed them at play for a while and then, without warning, struck a cub down with one great swipe of his paw. The others, shocked, were silent and then began to howl at their still brother.

Wolf came quickly and stood in horror at his dead cub and looked in astonishment at his brother. "What have you done? Why would you do such a thing? Why?"

Coyote finished cleaning his paw and said deliberately, "If the People must remember that life is precious, a treasure, you should also feel what death means."

---

I don't recall what American Indian tribe this myth belongs to or where I first read it. I'm sure I've mangled the details a bit, but it's always stuck with me. Some tribes, particuarly Navajo, believe that Coyote is a very sinister trickster and while this story does have its sinister aspect, Coyote is essentially arguing to make people's lives easier.

I think it's telling that Wolf cries "Why" on the death of one of his children. Most of us wonder the same thing at the ending of any life that comes suddenly, sometimes those that come slowly, and particularly those that come premature.

Posted by Red Monkey at 12:41 PM | Comments (5) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble

November 12, 2006

Remember When

From the time I was very small, I loved getting out my baby book and flipping through the notes Mom had made, the cards people had sent, and the photos that she'd put into the book. One thing that always fascinated me was comparing what I remembered with what I saw in the baby book ... or in the photo albums. We moved so frequently between my birth and the time I started school, that I've always been amazed at just what I could remember from an early age ... although I'm certain that having all of those different locations on which to pin an age helped me to realize that those memories were from a specific age. I would guess that children who don't move so much probably pin most of their early memories at an older age ... one that seems more "rational" to our adult minds. I'm lucky, I suppose, in that I can pin those memories to an age a bit more accurately, just from where we were living at the time.

At any rate, we lived in Carmel, Indiana, for just a year. Moved there probably in December of 1972 and left probably about the same time period in 1973, or perhaps in early 1974. It was the only year we lived "up north" and despite having a very good friend who lived next door to me, it was the one place we lived (pre-kindergarten, anyway) that I hated with a passion. Dad was working for National Sherdata at the time and I can remember him taking me up to work with him one day so I could see the computer room. Yup, that was the time of the big punch card machines and I was quite fascinated with the noisy mess and how those little manila cards with their oddly-spaced holes could be so important.

Since I've been back in Indiana for the last 12 years (I only intended to be here for two, darnit), I've often thought about driving down to Carmel and trying to find the old apartment. I don't know why I'm so driven to re-connect with the many places I've lived, but I've always done that. (And, don't you know I just LOVE Google Maps for getting a bird's eye view of places today.) So, when I was able to scan pages of my baby book and photos from Mom's photo albums this summer, I was really excited to find a page which listed all of the addresses we'd lived while I was growing up.

And, when our church choir was invited to sing at our regional assembly down in Indianapolis, I knew all the stars had aligned perfectly ... and I was going to make a detour down memory lane on the way back home from it all.

The directions from MapQuest weren't very good once I got to the apartment complex ... I should have used GoogleMaps instead, because after I got home, I could see exactly what I should have done. However, MapQuest had a few details wrong, and so when I turned into the complex, I had the strangest thing happen.

My instinct was to make a left turn and then another left. MapQuest told me to turn right almost immediately, and then I'd be there. I followed directions and ignored my instinct. As it turns out, and I very vaguely remember this now that I've been there again, the complex is actually a mixed setting of "townhouses" and apartments. Some buildings have a door that leads to several apartments ... some buildings have a door for each two story "townhouse." So, I'm looking for the address, and looking at the buildings ... and I'm not surprised but I am disappointed. Looks like they've re-faced everything and remodeled into strictly apartments. I drive around where the directions said my old home was ... and other than somewhat recognizing shapes ... well, it just wasn't that familiar. Even the street names didn't match memory or MapQuest.

Since I have no one in the car with me and I'm not on any schedule, I decide to just drive around the complex for a bit and see what I can see.

Sure enough, my memory of this place where I lived for just about a year when I was four and just past when I turned five ... over 30 years ago (33 years since my fifth birthday, for those who need details ) ... that instinct was right on the money.

The steps aren't as steep as I remember and the little "hill" up from the parking lot is also not as steep as I recall ... but I did remember the turns it would take to get to the old apartment! How weird is that?

The door on the right was to our place ... the door to the left was where my best friend, Megan, lived. I can recall, early one morning, bored because only the televangelists were on ... and not my beloved Scooby Doo, I decided that all little kids run away. And it occurred to me that I had not yet done this. I was getting old and I should do this soon. So, having no idea whatsoever how to go about running away, I merely snuck out the front door as quietly as possible ... walked down our steps ... through the grass ... up Megan's steps ... and knocked on their door. When her mom answered, I couldn't really think of anything to say except, "Can Megan play?"

Her mom tried very hard not to laugh. My hair, baby-fine and far too long for me to comb, was tangled and ratted and standing up all over the place. I was in my yellow pajamas with the odd flowers ... a nice flannel set for the cold weather. And ... as was usual for me ... I was barefoot.

"Megan's not awake yet," she said. "I think maybe you better run along back home." I nodded. I was very compliant at that age.

And thoughtful, too. I grabbed the morning paper on the way back in and left it on the kitchen table for Mom. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I forgot to lock the door when I came back in, so instead of being thankful for the paper, I was chastised for not keeping the door locked.

And, as I remembered this and other things as well, I turned the car away and prepared to drive back out of the complex. That carport! Oh my!

As we returned from shopping one day, Megan and I safely tucked in the back, my sister in her car seat between us, our Moms both in the front, someone jumped out in front of the car with a gun! He jumped out just like on TV or in the movies, legs spread wide ... he'd been hiding in the carport, just waiting for someone to hold up.

As it turned out ... it was just Chris, the evil bully of the neighborhood, with his BB pistol. My mother was horrified and actually almost as scared as I was. Megan rolled her eyes and tried to make me feel better. Megan's mother was furious. She creeped the car forward and refused to actually come to a stop, which forced Chris to either hold his ground and get run over or move out of the way. We all saw him bunch up all his leg muscles and Megan's mom yelled out the window that if he jumped on her car, there was going to be HELL to PAY! Apparently he changed his mind, and he ran back into the carport.

Ahh, gotta love that 70s decor, huh?

And those 70s outfits. Sheesh.

It was truly odd to put those memories and those physical pictures I have of the inside of that apartment together with the way the outside looks today ... which really, is not much different at all from the way it looked back in the day.

What I didn't expect was just how much clarity of memory I would have as I sat in the parking lot, snapping pictures. I didn't expect to see "movies" of events so clearly. Like in this piano picture above ... I can see Mom and I crouched at the edge of the carpet, in runner's poses ... our backs to the piano, we're facing that front door. Dad is calling out, "Get ready, get set GO!" I am positive that I am a far better runner than my mother, never mind her legs are far longer than mine and the distance we're running is short. I didn't get a chance to make the run, though. As Dad yelled, "GO!" he also reached forward and grabbed my ankle so that I landed flat on my face in the entry hall. I was hurt, I was furious. I could BEAT Mom, I could! She gloated that she'd beaten me and I kept shouting that it wasn't fair.

We set up a re-match and honestly, I think Dad was having a "Lucy moment" (from Charlie Brown ... you know, her lovely football stunt?). After the third attempt, Mom was quietly chastising a laughing Dad and I was so furious I hardly knew what to do with myself.

Amazing what tidbits our minds hold for us.

Posted by Red Monkey at 2:57 PM | Comments (4) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | TrackBack | Stumble