July 5, 2013
I was never alone.
One of my best girlfriends declared she is afraid to live by herself and has
the big screen television turned “on” all the time, for background noise, as if
there is a big party going on in her place, and the rest of the world was not
sent a personal invite.
Growing up in a
house with three older and three younger sisters, two younger brothers, mom,
dad and my gerbils, Josephine and Joe (if they escaped from the aquarium with a
screen top, I could not go to school until the “RATS!” were found and impounded
in their glass prison,) I was rarely alone. My favorite spot to feel alone was
the upstairs bathroom I recall lying on
the blue and white linoleum floor next to the vent, with a book, reading and
lingering as long as possible until someone started banging on the door,
shouting to have their turn at the toilet.
We always glommed
onto a used tv, one of the nine of us forever banging on the side of the unit
to get the picture “in,” and halt the
fuzzy images from rolling one side to the next. A black and white, a smaller tv
than you can imagine, placed in the back room where we could lie on the massive
couches dad built from the barn he tore down to utilize all of the scrap wood,
to languish over our shows. The walls, ceiling, floors and furnishings,
including the picture frames for our large collection of graduation photos,
made from said wood, graced the new space. The ceiling fixture was covered with
an antique colander, oxen harnesses hung on the walls, lanterns from great
grandma’s barn and tools scattered in the corners. It was cooler than the house
since it was originally a slab of concrete off the back door.
For the fourth of
July we had sparklers. I do recall a bit of oohing and ahing yet I am not
certain where we went to watch the fireworks. Much later in life, I sat on the
roof of my brown Volvo, Taelor must have been about two or three at the time,
taking in the far away scene and reveling in the fact that I felt alone, with
her, the only two people on the planet watching the fireworks.
Our vacations were
spent camping in a large army tent, moldy smelling and spacious enough for all
of us. We scrunched so none of us would have to feel the wedge of wetness from
rolling into the side of the tent, collecting the dew off the grass. Thick
rectangular sleeping bags rolled out, lots of kicking and squirming going on
throughout the night. We adored the lakes in Wisconsin yet inevitably one of us, if not
all, would end up with swimmers itch. Save mom, since she could not swim. She
was always a nervous wreck as we swam long lengths away from shore while she
paced on the beach and screamed we were “too far.” We all had swimming lessons
at the local YMCA to assure her we would not drown and leave her behind to
mourn.
Our 56 passenger
baby blue bus-turned-into-a-camper was talk of the town. Eventually one of the
neighbor’s complained (Mrs. Thomas, were you
the culprit?) so we had to move it from alongside our house to another
spot, out of sight and out of her mind. It was an amazing camper with eight
green and white bump-your-head-if-you-sat-up-straight bunk beds, two solid beds
for mom and dad, kitchen table, cupboards that were forever swinging open
during the course of the journey, an enclosed bathroom, stove and seats turned
sideways on either side behind the driver. I liked to sit on the “L” just as
you entered the accordion door and trod up the two large black rubber steps. It
was a dream come true. We drove it across the country, several times, to Philadelphia and the New Jersey shore to see mom’s animated side
of the family. They were all teary, blubbering Italians (including all of the
neighbors) who gave us sample shots of their homemade blow-your-head-off
anisette, ghastly thick red wine, fresh soft shell crab cakes, wondrous
hoagies, soft pretzels as big as your head, and forever pinched our cheeks in
delight. Our momma’s kids. They could not get over it. Obviously, neither could
we.
After the baby
blue bus was sold or perhaps before we acquired it, the parental units decided
to rent a camper to accompany the fumy, now quite stained tent. Dad got it to
the camp site and popped the top only to discover it was in the shape of a
covered wagon. He thought she ordered it specifically and she thought he was
playing a trick on her. We were enchanted and crammed in.
Once I remember
getting a hotel room for the night. Dad insisted on declaring all of us upon
check-in which we thought outrageous. Most of us would have to sleep on the
floor anyway, why pay for each individual kid? Dad is such a stickler for the
rules.
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