Memories
One of my most favorite books to checkout in early elementary years, The House of Four Seasons, by Roger Duvoisin. I fantasied about living in that house. Loved how the family restored the old house then everyone selected their favorite color to match each season – not how twenty-five four seasons played out for me. Within that twenty-five-year span we lived in nine different dwellings, the longest nine years. My mother lived in eleven locations considering the last twenty-five years in a government subsidized high rise for seniors before her last few months in a nursing home – we dubbed the facility.
Duvoisin captured a little boy’s budding creativity, not only with a house the family fell in love with nestled among tall trees, he captivated artistic sensibilities with his use of a color wheel – blending red, yellow, and blue creating each season of color. The book intrigued me because four family members wanted each side of the house painted a different color for each season, the childlike fantasy allure for me. But I had no understanding of the deeper meaning in elementary school.
My mother, circa. 1967
The most vivid memory that frigid night of the first walkthrough is the opened toilet – a memory firmly chiseled in my brain. I paused and fixated on the faux porcelain bowl full of yellow liquid and a half-smoked cigarette trapped in frozen sewage – thus the stench. My six-year-old intellect didn’t comprehend how life as I knew it was about to become what eyes beheld. I unknowingly faced nine long years literally stuck in the middle of a narrow tin rectangle – the exterior dull yellow and white with silver pin stripes. When I look at the old photo of my mother standing next to the trailer in the snow, I’m saddened even though she’s smiling. I know that smile – layered complexities of hurt and pain behind it. For some strange reason I remember the stiffness and scent of her plaid coat too.
The next thing I recall is sitting on the floor next to the new board game – Green Ghost. I reached slowly for pieces I hadn’t placed – arm and hand trembling a bit – looking through foggy eyes, smearing nose droplets on my pajama sleeve – the room quiet now – heart pounding. My father went to bed – probably passed out from his inebriated rampage. He successfully ruined another Christmas – another drunken holiday season to remember. What was she thinking? Did she cheat on him? If she did, she didn’t deserve what just occurred. Thoughts crashing around in my mind – continued working on the new board game.
Chapter: Darkness
Me with Mrs. Pigg after a big catch, circa. 1965
Mr. Pigg built his own camper on the back of his pick-up truck bed. I rode in the hand-built camper section before seatbelts with an alcoholic driver with emphysema – it was hot with little ventilation. I didn’t consider how the homemade camper was attached, too young to ponder safety issues – my mother should have but obviously didn’t. One evening at Kentucky lake my mother slept on the front seat of his truck and I slept in the floor board – the hump in the middle was terribly uncomfortable. Somehow the whole camping event was fun for me – fishing, playing around the lake, preparing our own food. Mrs. Pigg showed me how to clean freshly caught fish – I thought it was a messy job but managed to assist.
Our home on Idlewild with a covered front porch and white railing, rose trellis on each side of the porch, two dogwoods in the small front yard, hedge bordering the street – a quaint dwelling. My mother cultivated giant zinnias and placed hanging flower baskets of petunias along the porch. A brick paver sidewalk led to the front steps – porch converted to a regular retreat for my parents. And yes, everything did seem a bit calmer and serene but deep-rooted habits prevailed. One evening when a group of my friends gathered in the small front yard before departing, we were talking and laughing loudly when my mother suddenly made an appearance at the door and yelled, “It sounds like a damn circus out here!”
Chapter: Sojourners
Northeastern Washington State close to the Canadian boarder
I froze, struck by nature’s beauty once again. A field covered in blooming wild flowers, scarlet paintbrush, lacy cow parsley, purple camas, Alpine lupines – imagined a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers but our masculine troop would not understand my creative inclinations. Thirty yards away a large boulder sat solitary surrounded by perfect loveliness. I observed it all. The boulder looked as though I might be able to climb upon it for a little awestruck meditation – I did just that. Attempting to register the enormity, the silence overwhelmed my senses, deep breathing unpolluted air – only interrupted occasionally by a mountain bluebird or western meadowlark alerting me I invaded their private sanctuary.
Me pretending to know how to fish.
At one of the largest clear lakes, vestiges of winter had not been completely relinquished. Ice and snow still gripped shaded edges covering portions of the clear water below. The lake was so clear it looked deceivingly shallow because you could see the bottom scattered with boulders and timbers past. We fished or I should clarify, they fished and I attempted to fish. We didn’t catch any at this location but again, the beauty of the lake and surrounding mountains were breathtakingly spectacular it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing our human eyes gazed upon was manmade – every intricacy fashioned by nature.
Year three, I paused, looked at the old, worn concrete steps leading down to a door below the school cafeteria. Why had I never given any attention to those steps? My mind immediately recalled the steps discovered by Howard Carter in 1922 that led to the tomb of an ancient king. A colossal idea popped into my head but I needed to see behind the door – just as Carter. The custodian reluctantly opened it and my idea grew bigger than what I originally envisioned. Was it possible? Could I actually pull this off? Would the principal approve it? My mind raced with lots of crazy ideas of how to make this idea become reality. I went to the principal with a plan. One of the first units in social studies in sixth grade is ancient civilizations – ancient Egypt always a favorite because the students enjoyed it most and loved learning about the mummification process. I presented a plan to the principal to teach an integrated unit of study centered around ancient Egypt – create an Egyptian tomb and encompass all the subject areas – she loved the idea too and said go for it.
Pharaoh painted by sixth graders
Chapter: Tony Girl
He shared a photo of a female dressed in a beautiful long-sleeved yellow flowing chiffon dress – full Hollywood type makeup, false eyelashes and all. Upon closer inspection we realized it was Tony – we were a little stunned, a little shocked, and somewhat speechless. Our group went silent for a few moments – he sat in silence seemingly testing us, waiting for reactions. I don’t remember who broke the silence, it may have been me. I know we all began to laugh nervously – but not at him. I remember asking if he had dressed like this for a costume party – it seemed like a reasonable possibility. He said no. Then with a jerk of his arm and a snap of his finger he enlightened us by stating he was a drag queen. A drag what?
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