Recollections 2: The Forbidden Alley

As a little girl, I grew up in a very old part of down, old and well-maintained.  There was lots of money in MapleRidge, and most of the kids in the neighborhood went to private school, myself included.  (In fact, I can count on one hand the kids who did not: Rachel, whose parents were divorced, the Whites, who were rumored to be abusive to their youngest daughter, and a few others, but they were blocks away and, thus, out of my tangible reality.

Those of us who lived on Norfolk, as it was, were friends by convenience.  Our dads worked while our moms stayed home and catered to us - making Kool-Aid and sandwiches, providing towels for the swimming pool, and readily available with sunscreen, bug spray, or even a popsicle.  We carpooled to school, each mom loading up her station wagon or Lincoln with well-groomed, uniformed kids, driving the 1.5 miles to school, and picking us up at the end of the day.  When school was out, though, is when the fun really started.  A block of like-minded peers, all within about 5 years of one another, provided endless entertainment.  During the long summer days, between sprinklers and dips in the pool, water balloon fights would materialize - boys against girls, youngest siblings against oldest siblings - laughter rang and tiny feet scampered.  Games would last forever, or until the youngest kid on the block (often me) got a balloon in the face, or scraped her knee, and went home crying.  Then the older kids would either continue playing up the street or reconvene for drinks and snacks at the nearest resident.

We had almost absolute freedom within the 2x1 block surrounding our home; we could run freely from yard to yard (well, almost freely as the occasional gate blocked some pathways), enter and exit homes and backyards at a whim, yell inside front doors and upstairs, and even play hockey in the street (as long as no cars were coming).  There was one area that was "off limits" to us all, though, and this is the area we relished most.  The area existed behind my own backyard, but could only be accessed through my next-door neighbor's yard, as my yard was barricaded on all sides by a red-brick wall.  Yes, the forbidden area was the alley that existed in the neglected space between my gate and our backyard neighbor's own fortress.  The only reason the alley existed is because each neighbor (years, decades ago) had erected a monument of privacy to assure safety within his walled property, but the 3-5 feet between each wall was soon forgotten and quickly fell into ruin, taken over, I could only imagine as a 6 year old who was prohibited permission to explore the area, by homeless men and prostitutes.

We didn't spend too much time in the alley; it was rather hard to escape the diligent attention of our doting mothers, but when we managed to escape to our private get-away, one by way, through the Trowler's tree house, what we discovered can only be described as ecstasy.  One of the earliest quests I can remember resulted in the acquisition of metal tubes of oil paint.  What was it doing in our alleyway?  Did a starving artist subsist somewhere nearby?  Were these grimy tubes somehow used to get high?  We eagerly rubbed the remaining paint on the cement cinder blocks, the back sides of our own walls, and, finally, to be rid of the evidence, on plants and trees before returning home.  Other ventures led to the discovery of broken bottles, articles of clothing, and garbage.  Who knows how dangerous the alley actually was (probably much more dangerous at night while we were all safely asleep in bed than in broad daylight when we dreamt ourselves to be invincible), but retreating to the alley, throughout my childhood, always made me feel mature and offered respite from the sometimes overstimulating world.

Re: My Original Sentence from Jake Euker

Just recently, I attended a yard sale put on by a number of people, including local eccentric and artist, Jake Euker.  At this yard sale, Jake was selling original sentences for .50 each.  I bought three: one for me, one for a neighbor, and one as a birthday gift for my sister-in-law.  My sentence came in a Nascar-themed envelope which read "We just absolutely pity any dumb bastard who is too stupid and conceited to buy this sentence," was written on a Nascar car-shaped notecard, and said, "I'm made up all of Jello," Mama said, "and Toofy's made up all of Jello, too."

The card had an 11-legged sun figure (white) floating free and 3 green, white, and black skull stickers adhered to the inside.

Here is my imagination gone wild with that original sentence:

"I'm made up all of Jello," Mama said, "and Toofy's made up all of Jello, too."

"And what did you expect, after all that lemonade and water you drank today?" Papa replied, setting down his can of BudLight long enough to light a cigarette.


Neither of them thought it strange that my sister and I'd had only raw hot dogs and ice cream for breakfast, nor did they warn us to wait an hour before we played on the Slip-'n-Slide Pa had haphazardly lain across our 1/16 acre of a backyard.  Fortunately, the yard didn't have many rocks, but just last year, Toofy'd run inside crying after stepping on an especially sharp one while playing hide-and-go-seek.  Mom put some of her special formula on her knee, a rainbow-colored Band-aid, and told Toof to "Run along, now.  Mom and Dad are busy."  So it was most summer days; Toof and I would entertain ourselves while Ma made cocktails and watched TV and Pa typed away on his "great American novel."


"You always say we should stay hydrated," I remind my Pa, rolling my eyes exaggeratedly, "but it's no fun sliding on a belly full of water." 


"Sit in the sun," Pa said.  "You'll sweat it off soon enough."


And he was right.  Today was the hottest day of summer yet - 107, and it wasn't even 2:00 pm.  On day's as hot as these, the window unit in the TV room did little to cool the house enough to play inside.  Besides, a kid can only watch so many "Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire" re-runs before wondering what's going out outside; has the sprinkler reached Mrs. White's fence and her beloved rose bush yet?  Was the stray cat in the yard?  And how many froglings had happened upon the rapidly growing puddle next to the hose since the valve leaks?  Toof and I never went two consecutive hours inside; we were young and wild, and we defied the Newscaster's warning to stay inside to avoid heat-stroke.  Heat-stroke was something foreign, like foie-gras or paella, and only happened to, like, old people in upper-level apartment buildings in the 1980s.  And me and Toofer live in Central Kansas in 2011.

Recollections 1: "The Feeling of Home"

When I think about "home," I think of my mom's kitchen - big, immaculate, and somehow empty.  The red Mexican tiles on the floor, the over-stuffed brown leather couch, the wood-burning fireplace, and my mom, inside the island in the kitchen, cooking.

What she cooked was never magnificent - yes, she had her prized dishes, mostly her strawberry pie, chocolate sheath cake, and, dad's favorite, banana cake with double the cream cheese icing recipe - but, while the meals were never grandiose, they were always delicious and made with love.  One of my favorite meals was her chicken and rice, made in an electric skillet with cream of mushroom soup and a little bit of cooking sherry.  I've never been able to recreate the buttery goodness that seems to have been the product of using an outdated cooking skillet.  I also relished her goulash, which was more a style than a specific recipe, I guess, since it was simply an assortment of ground meat, lots of meat, corn, macaroni, and whatever else she put in the make it delicious, and seasoned with a couple bay leaves.  What a fantastic wonder to a teenage girl who didn't know a thing about cooking - I was always delighted when I accidentally got a bay leaf in my bowl: "Mom!  I got a leaf!  Is this edible?!" and her inevitable response, "No, Kelsie, don't eat that!" followed by mock embarrassment and a show of throwing the intruder into the mechanical trashcan on her side of the island.

Oh, that mechanical trashcan!  How much disdain it caused during my childhood.  Not only was I the only kid I knew who had one, but it was a constant point of unspoken contention among the family.  Whereas, it seemed, my parents thought it best to smash the garbage and leave it that way, compressed, until the next person need use it (for that's what it was, a compressor), I always thought it should the job of the person who compressed the garbage last to leave the trash unlocked - easily accessible to the next victim of rubbish.  Can't you imagine being that person, having just cracked an egg and trying to dispose of the broken shell without getting too much goo on your hands (salmonella!) only to be thwarted by the locked garbage can?  The solution was easy, of course, all one had to do was nudge the bottom of the contraption upward to unlock (downward to compress and lock), wait about 30 seconds, and then, voila!  Opensesame, but, those 30 seconds seem an eternity when your hands are covered in raw chicken, oozing egg whites, or, god forbid, peanut butter!

In fact, if I'm perfectly honest, I'd have to admit that the kitchen itself was a place of contention for a number of years during my turbulent teens in the mornings.  How much I loathed the sight of both my parents awaiting my arrival to the kitchen before school in the mornings, lovingly reading the newspaper, buttered toast getting soggy on a plate for me, accompanied by a glass of iced tea or juice, and full of questions for their teenage daughter.  Didn't they know that teenagers are not morning people and don't like to talk about their personal lives to their parents, at least not at 7:00 in the morning?  Apparently they didn't, being the great parents they were, I'm sure they'd read somewhere that parents need to communicate with their teenagers, ask them about their friends and happenings at school, and show support - which they did, to no end, but I was not reciprocal to their barrage of questions in the morning.  I remember sulking into the kitchen and being greeting with my mother's perky, "Those jeans look great!  Where'd you get them?" and actually responding with, "Please don't compliment my physical appearance," as if I was so over vanity, as if I hadn't tried on three different outfits that morning before emerging into the world, and as if I didn't agree, that yes, these jeans DID look great on me!  It became so loathsome to me that I recall a number of times actually avoiding the kitchen altogether, detouring through the atrium in the mornings and out the side door to avoid these abhorred interactions.

I never meant to be so hateful, though.  In fact, after I realized how brazen I'd become, I would spend all morning, as I showered and blow-dried my hair psyching myself up, coming up with appropriate responses for the inevitable forthcoming small talk.  There was a long hallway between my bedroom and the kitchen and I spent many mornings traversing this hallway with the sole mantra, "Just be kind to Mom today," it was just my mom that mattered because my dad is hard of hearing and rarely had his hearing aids in in the mornings, and many mornings, he'd already left for work anyway, so it was only my mom there to greet me.  I'd clench my jaw and enter, but all gumption would evaporate as I was faced with my glowing mother's smile in the morning.  What was it that was so insufferable to me about her happiness?  Was it because I did not feel blissful every morning, or many other times during the day, and actually had a tendency toward depression that I couldn't tolerate her mirth?  Or did I already suspect what I now know to be true of all adults, which is that much of adulthood is simply sucking up the unpleasantries of life, embracing the small pleasures, and pretending that the good outweighs the bad every day?  How I despised artificiality, and still do, and perhaps I saw a glimmer of disingenuity in my mother's eyes, but her affection was never ingenuine, only her acceptance of her lot in life, I think.

The lovely thing about my mother, though, is that she always forgave me and never held these grouchy mornings against me.  I'm not as much of a monster as I may sound; I could never make it all the way out of the neighborhood without calling her from my cell phone and apologizing for being so mean.  I was miserable, internally, and I think she knew it.  She always put others before herself in that way.  I've since asked her how she put up with me during those years and she says, "I always knew you'd call and apologize before I was done cleaning up the plates."

I remember the kitchen as somewhat empty though because, however large it was, we rarely filled the space.  My sister and I were busy with separate obligations: school, boyfriends, choir, church, and so we rarely had sit-down dinners together at the table.  Oftentimes, mom would prepare a stew, dinner, goulash - something reheatable, and leave it on the stove for whoever wanted it.  Sometimes this would be ready by the time I came home from school in the afternoon, other times, I'd get home to an empty house - mom'd gone out to run some errands, Dad still at work, sister still at school, and I'd have some Easy Mac or graham crackers with peanut butter to hold me over until dinner.  It was a vast space though, large and accommodating - there was an island with 6 chairs and a couch which could seat another half dozen people, and we rarely even congregated just the four of us.  And many afternoons (and this is still true), I'd come home to just my mom, sitting in the kitchen, on the phone, the computer, or cooking something, and that's when we'd have our good chats.  She'd ask me about my day, my friends, my boyfriend, and I was finally ready to communicate.  In retrospect, I loved how she knew the name of my teachers, my friends, and empathized with me over fights between friends and relationships.  Even now, when I make it home for a weekend or mid-week visit, I look forward to sitting around the island in those uncomfortable wire-backed chairs (who knows why we never sit on the comfortable couch), drinking wine, and reminiscing.

Observations.

Tommy leaned against the fence watching his dad clear the branches.  Though he tried to feign disinterest, he wanted nothing more than for his dad to call out and ask for help, but he never would.  Not since the accident.  Especially now that he had Michael around to do all the heavy lifting.

As Tommy watched his dad struggle with a rather lop-sided load, his mind wandered back to that day in the backyard three years ago.  It had been a sunny summer day, toward the beginning of summer.  Tommy remembered because he'd just gotten a new skateboard for his 12th birthday, which was always the last week of school, and he was trying to figure out how to stay on it despite the gravel drive.  It was still early morning because Dad never worked out in the yard in the heat of the day; whenever it got too hot, that's when Dad made the inevitable observation, "That'll do for today.  Time for some R&R&B."  Tommy had thought that's how the phrase went until he tried to use it at school one day after a game of basketball at recess.  "That'll do for now, guys.  Let's head in for some R&R&B."  That earned him a number of confused looks, and it wasn't until he came home and reported to his mother what had happened that she enlightened him that the "B" was Dad's personal take on the motto and stood for the cold beer he indulged in around noon every Saturday.

Well, that Saturday, Dad was on the ladder repainting the second story windows, and Tommy was there to keep him company, make sure he didn't fall, and get him anything he might need while up there on the ladder.  Like most Saturdays, they'd waken up together - Tommy long before Mom and Beth- eaten over-cooked eggs and weak coffee, and headed to the hardware store.  Tommy relished these early morning drives to the hardware store because they were one of the only times he felt like Dad talked to him like an equal.  Sometimes Dad would have something on his mind and, once they got around the bend in the road, he'd start off, "Tommy, have you ever noticed the old beat up bike in the back of the garage?" and then he'd proceed to tell Tommy an unbelievable adventure from his childhood; Tommy was always amazed his dad didn't run out of stories from his youth.  And he could never picture Grandpa the way Dad described him - so strict and hard-working.  Now he was just a bald old man like any other old man, and he even gave Tommy sips of  beer when Mom wasn't around.

Or Dad might wait for Tommy to ask a question or share a concern.  No matter what the issue, Dad always took Tommy's questions seriously, like the first time Tommy told Dad about Daisy, the girl he'd had a crush on since the 4th grade.  Dad didn't laugh it off like Mom had; Dad didn't say, "Well aren't you a little young to have a crush?" or make any patronizing comment about 'puppy love.'  Dad had looked him straight in the eye and listened as Tommy explained how he felt when he was around her.  Then Dad said probably the best possible thing he could have said in response, "Tommy, I know exactly how you feel.  That's how I felt the first time I saw Emily."  Tommy knew all about Emily - how she was Dad's first girlfriend when they were young, how Dad stayed at her house after school because she had a babysitter and Dad's parents couldn't afford one.  How she'd broken up with him when high school started and it had broken Dad's heart.  Dad always knew what to say to validate Tommy's feelings, make him feel like a man.

This Saturday had started off like every Saturday as long back as Tommy could remember - breakfast with Dad, sneaking out of the house so as not to wake Mom and Beth, driving in the old Ford to the hardware store, chatting with Sam, the ornery old man who ran the store, and getting right to work on whatever project Dad had in mind; this specific day, it happened to be painting the upstairs windows.  Tommy knew that his Dad loved to paint; he liked the feeling of being on top of the ladder, being able to see miles of flat Oklahoma terrain on either side of him, to see the parts of the house no one normally noticed: the gutters, the roof shingles, the birds' nests which were nestled under the soffit.  Dad could work in silence for hours; he never skimped, always cared more about perfection than speed, and Tommy was quickly acquiring Dad's work ethic.  Dad had let Tommy paint the 1st floor windows, but he didn't want Tommy on the ladder, "Maybe next year," he'd said.  Tommy didn't mind, though.  To him, these Saturday mornings were more about spending time with Dad than getting work done on the house, not that he was a lazy worker - he was dedicated, if nothing else, just to please Dad, but the quality time with his Dad is really what got him out of bed every weekend of the summer.

So there he was, messing around in the driveway with his new board while Dad carefully lathered each pane in a layer of paint.  If he got low on paint, he'd call out to Tommy, "Son!  More paint up here!"  And Tommy would hop up to refill him.  When he needed a drink, Tommy had an ice water, or a cold lemonade at the ready.

After he finished one layer of olive green, he came down and had a snack with Tommy on the picnic table.  Mom had just cut up a fresh watermelon, and there should be cookies later that morning.  They'd talked about what their next project should be: tearing out the walls in the attic or finally tackling the tiles in the kitchen that Mom had been complaining about for so many years?

It was nearing 11:00 when Dad got back on the ladder to apply the second layer of paint.  Dad always liked to have three layers of paint, just in case, and Tommy knew this well.  Tommy also knew that Dad never worked after 12:00 p.m. and that it had taken about an hour to apply the first coat.  Tommy had hoped that Dad might speed up a little, cut a few corners, not paint the undersides of the windows' lips with such precision - there was so much to be said for starting and completing a job all in one day.  Such a feeling of accomplishment!  But Dad took his time, steady as ever, and the minutes of mid-morning kept passing by.  11:14, Dad had finished one of 5.  11:27 - finishing touches on number two.  11:41 - window number three was complete.  Dad looked at his watch and tackled window 4, which happened to be Beth's room.  Dad took extra care sanding off the old paint, cleaning the window and taping it off tightly.  He painted the left panel, then the right panel... the top of the window and the ledge underneath.  When he was finished, he wiped his forehead with the hanker chief from his back pocket, looked at his watch, and started his careful descent down the ladder.  Tommy felt anxious -- it was already 12:01.  Would Dad sacrifice another fifteen or twenty minutes in the sun to finish the final window today?  Tommy silently pleaded him to do so.  He couldn't stand the thought of an incomplete job until next Saturday.  He watched as his Dad chugged the entire glass of water Mom'd brought out for him.  He licked his lips and said, "Well, that'll do for today.  Time for some R&R&B.  Come on, Tommy.  We'll finish'er up next weekend."

But Tommy couldn't stand it; the weight of that one naked window would weigh on him all week, keep him awake at night, and he knew he couldn't leave it.  He called after his Dad, "I'll be right in, just let me put the ladder away."  And as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew what he had to do.

He positioned the ladder directly under his parents' bedroom window, which was right in the center of the house, and he grabbed the bucket and brush.  He locked the ladder like Dad had taught him to, careful to jiggle the lock into place because he knew it was an old piece of junk and sometimes fell out.  He scurried up the ladder and began to strip the old paint, first with a scraper and then with a sander.  He pulled the brush out of his back pocket and began applying the dark lacquer, smooth and even, as Dad had taught him, but hurriedly.  Any minute, he knew his Dad would come looking for him and be none-too-happy to find he's disobeyed his orders and climbed up the ladder, even if it was just to finish a job-well-done for his Dad.

"Tommy?  You coming?" he heard echo from around the side of the house.

"Be right there, Dad!"

He quickly splashed the side panes with color, covered the top-most pane, and bent down to get the details around the ledge and soffit, as meticulously as his father did.  As he bent over, though, the ladder wobbled beneath him, and he felt himself sway from side to side.

"Steady," he thought to himself.  "You're almost done."

When he straightened back up, he heard the faulty clasp of the ladder 'click,' unlocking the security and unbalancing his stance.  As the ladder gave way beneath him, and Tommy's arms flung toward the ledge to grab on, the window he'd so carefully cleaned burst and he grabbed on to the jagged edges.  The ladder crashed to the ground beneath him, and, before he'd realized what had happened, Mom, Dad, and Beth were beneath him, yelling up, "Are you OK?"

Dad ran upstairs and pulled Tommy through the bedroom window, careful to grab his wrists instead of his bloody hands.  Tommy was already apologizing, in the midst of all the blood and chaos, he wailed, "I'm sorry, Dad, I'm sorry," but his Dad didn't acknowledge his pathetic whimpering, just pulled him out of the window sill and, eventually, to the emergency room.

The doctors were able to sew his hands back together, but they told Tommy's parents (never looking Tommy directly in the eye) that he would never regain the agility and fine-motor skills he once had.  And though he attended laborious physical rehabilitation, and squeezed and squeezed stress balls until his fingers blistered, he couldn't control a paint brush or use a chop stick again.

All these memories flooded Tommy's head as he observed Dad hauling wood to the side of the house, same blue jeans and white shirt that he'd worn every Saturday for the past 16 years.  And a jolt of jealousy stabbed him as he saw Beth's boyfriend, Michael, round the corner with another load of wood.

After the accident, Dad had routinely checked on Tommy in his room, brought him sandwiches Mom had prepared in the kitchen, and any Kool-Aid or soda that Tommy requested, but there was a subtle shift in their relationship.  The weekend following the accident, Dad didn't get Tommy out of bed to go to the hardware store on Saturday, understandably, because Tommy's hands were still wrapped in gauze, and he'd be no use in the yard, but Tommy felt hurt when he woke up and realized Dad had gone without him.  His dad didn't wake him up the following weekend, either, or any weekend after that.  A few times, Tommy had set his alarm and met Dad in the kitchen, hoping to ride along, but Dad always mumbled something about "working by myself today" or "Mom said she needed you around the house," and Tommy never pushed the topic.  He knew he'd disappointed Dad by breaking the rules and hurting himself.  He knew he'd have to build up Dad's trust again, but he didn't know how when Dad never gave him the opportunity.

And then Beth started dating Michael.  At first, Tommy liked Michael; Michael would hang around the house and chat with whoever was in the room.  He helped Mom carry in groceries, helped Tommy with his Algebra homework, and even lent a hand when Dad was working on projects outside.  Then he started showing up on the weekends - he'd arrive around 11:00, happen to see Dad working on something and offer to help.  It didn't take long before Dad invited Michael along to the hardware store with him one Saturday, and Michael had been riding along ever since - taking Tommy's seat in the truck, participating in what should have been Tommy's intimate conversations with his Dad, lending the strong, able hands that Tommy no longer had.  And this had been going on for an entire year, now.  Every Saturday, Michael showed up at the door, pounded Tommy's fist, as if they were allies, not enemies.  Sometimes he even brought Mom flowers!  What a dope.  Didn't he have a family of his own?  Why didn't he spend Saturdays with his own Dad?  Why did he have to come and ruin Tommy's chances of making amends to his father?  Of course, Tommy knew he was the one who had broken he and Dad's sacred bond to begin with, but it was so much easier to take his anger out on Michael, who wasn't even a member of the family.