from wunna my threads early on;
Recollections
this became rather lengthy....
Ever so often, I'd drive up to the ol' place for, well, old time's sake.
I always enjoyed the rush of memories, driving the old lane, and around the corner, up the hill onto the flat where most the kid population was, and where gramma's house, my 2nd home, crowned the hill.
Our place and gramma's place was one property, adjoined by five or so acres of strawberry patch, making the patch a short cut between houses.
Not long ago I hired a new engineer, he was a whip.
Ate up everything I could hand him.
Became our I.T.
Made tedious, complex projects his fun little game.
Interfaced quite well with our clients.
We became friends, even though he was in his late 20's, and I in my mid 50's.
Come to find out, his dad lived at and owned the property out there in the hills of Scappoose.
I had to make the trip one more time.
Our little converted broom factory house was ready for razing. The doors were off, the garage my dad and grandpa built (with a hand saw and hammer) were gone.
We stopped. I boosted myself thru the doorless, and stepless porch entry, the closed in porch was our laundry room.
Wringer washer, clothes line, wicker baskets, sweet smells of Fels-Naptha, my place to take off my day's clothes and grab the tub off the wall.
Rooms, once huge, were now so tiny.
The kitchen, remodeled with the rest of the house, still had the red fire alarm above the sink.
Dad would proudly demonstrate to friends how loud it was, putting a glass of hot water up near it.
The wood cook stove was gone, but the pipe coming outta the ceiling, with the ornate metal ring, bore testament of many a meal.
Meals I learned to prepare, taking a few times to learn how to not break an egg yolk, how to get pancakes to turn out like mom's and gramma's, snacks dad showed how he ate when young, tater slices scorched on the cook top, then lightly salted. Tasted horrible, but really good, cookin' with Dad, good.
The table was gone of course. The curvy steel legged one that replaced the solid wood one, well not so solid, as we lost a meal or two due to the one wobbly leg. But that steel one with the gray Formica (?) top was up town.
There I'd sit, waiting out the meal, spreadin' my peas around to make it look like I ate some.
'If you don't at least take a bite of your peas you won't get any cake!'
Eventually, I'd be sittin' at the table alone, studying the gray swirly pattern of the table top, malnourished head propped up on my arm.
Dad, Mom, and sis would be in the living room watchin' Howdy Doody on the Hoffman, or something just as wonderful.
Eventually, I ate cake...then did the dishes.
One Sunday morning I sat at an empty table, but for a glass of milk and the One-a-Day pill bottle. Dad and Mom were exasperated... 'Your throat is this big, the pill is this big'..minutes-hours passed, shadows on the table shortened...'OK, just drink your milk'
I drained the glass between pursed lips.
The little brown pill remained at the bottom.
Nice try, parents from satan.
We had a lot of beans, navy, pinto, brown.
Beans on bread was quite regular. Got to like'n it..not much choice really.
Had chocolate cake with white icing for dessert. No dessert plates. Cake just plopped on the bean juice.
To this day, I still have a craving for cake soaked in bean juice.
The house was designed so's I could ride my trike around and around, kitchen, living, bed, bath, bed rooms.
They were my Daytona, straight away was the bed, bath and bed rooms.
We had large windows in the front corners of the house from the remodel, 'so we can look out, for godsake'.
Now we could watch log trucks barrelin' down Pisgah Home Rd, and my sis and I could have a bird's eye vantage from the kitchen when Dad backed the Bel Air outta the garage over three of the four kittens puss had had weeks earlier under the porch.
Took my sis quite awhile to get over that, as she'd just named 'em a few hours earlier. I was just enamored with the scene; romp-play-mew-look up-smat.
Dad didn't know until he got home.
The living room still had the oil stove that warmed us...in the living room.
A flash of memory recalled the two end tables and lamps, aerodynamic, tables sharp, cutcha, lamps with flying saucer shapes, one had butterfly like images formed into its material, and when lit, enhanced their appearance.
A sectional couch, we were up town.
Before the sectional, we had one that kinda placed you in the middle, no matter where you started. It was my favorite, as sis and I spent many a day on it when sick.
Mom would lay out the sheets and blankets, administering doses of tea, crackers, and toast, peaches if we felt up to it.
Waste basket stationed at the tail end of that couch, since we were in such a weakened state we could never make it to the bathroom.
Mom loved it, our own personal Mother Teresa.
Yeah, we milked it for days...school work piling up.
Recovery would finally occur once bed sores emerged.
When we were actually sick, Doctor Day would visit. Fascinating, black bag, weird tools, gauzes, pill bottles, the smell of disinfectant and tobacco. Then the shot.
It was all almost worth it.
Asian flu was a bit serious, but chicken pox was horrific for me.
It was Christmas, fever, pox forming.
Presents! Guns! Six shooters!...only there was this pock right on my trigger finger. It was like free ham for a practicing orthodox Jew.
Dad, always the entrepreneur, would use the living room as the media center, inviting salesmen with projectors and actual reel to reel set ups, showing us how to become a thousandaire overnight.
Nutri-bio was one, to take the place of one-a-days I guess.
The Chinchilla movie was fascinating, and we even took a trip to a guy's garage to see how they were raised. Turns out they need an even controlled temp to get a good coat, and actually keep 'em alive.
The Geiger counter became something to show company, and become an antique.
Dad and Mom's bedroom held few memories for me except for the time Mom found a nest of baby mice in the bottom dresser drawer...and a hammer.
There was that other brief time, but seems we were all pretty shocked.
My bedroom was actually our bedroom, sis and me.
After the remodel, we got twin beds, new ones.
Recall my first migraine in my new bed, pressing my head into the pillow. Teddy no consolation, but then I didn't really give it an honest try to fix his dented plastic nose either.
Dad was the bedtime story teller, Goldie/bears, red/the wolf, pigs/wolf..pretty standard stuff....but did the job.
Had a framed picture of a collie baying over a lamb in a snow storm hanging over my bed. It hangs over my light stand table today, found in some of my mother's stuff.
The yard was not spectacular, but when sequestered from the woods, was plenty for me. I'd play in the dirt.
Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll-ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, would be cleaning the house, wiping something on the windows that would become a swirly fog, then wiping that off. Cleaning the floor was sweep, mop, wax. Linoleum was the rage.
Lunch would be a great, but simple sandwich, with lettuce, and soup.
The icebox held short stemmed dessert glasses of homemade chocolate pudding, each centered with a half maraschino cherry. For the longest time I thought cherries came that way straight from the tree.
Cross over the Bridge, or Sunny Side of the Street played on the radio. Then it was a Paul Harvey segment.
Nobody close died, there were no wars I was aware of, and folks were generally at ease during that eight year era of fond memories, just fragrant recollections.
This aging cynic, years of crust giving way to a soft spot, down deep, had a hard moment of holding back visual emotion, as we drove away from the last tangible vision ever to be seen of the house of a sweet early life.
