SAYING GOODBYE TO GOLD CASTLE

Memoryland. 

As far as my eye can see, spread out on tables under the dappled shadows of a finally sunny day. Inside the house, the chairs and sofas and cabinets of my lifetime, much of them purchased by my parents at an estate sale after they moved back from Morocco. I accidentally kicked something. I looked down. My mouth dropped open. 

Seeing the flat metal knife and fork are an instant pricking of recall. I'm standing at a concrete picnic table. The water is boiling in the big bucket, dinner dishes waiting for the spot of dishsoap which sweetens the air. Or the removable pot clamp clinched to the side of a skillet bubbling with goulash. Or white plastic coffee cups, unnested, filled with milk, waiting, placed beside four plates resting on the red gingham oilcloth, each sided by a paper napkin and a flat green fork on the left and a blue knife on the right. Bread and butter centering the table. The tiny goulash potatoes finally soft. The next day, every implement is packed up inside the big water pot, sealed shut. Daddy is loading up the trunk, a puzzle he re-creates every day, following a map down a road my Mama has picked out in February in Dallas during a cold spell. 

To Colorado. Nevada. Oklahoma. Fort Pickens State Park and a waterspout. Leaving beautiful Biloxi Beach the day before Camille.  Warm Springs, Georgia. The laurels of Highlands. The dunes of Kitty Hawk. Grand Canyon. Rocky Mountain August. Our family of four breathes vacation two weeks every summer.

Wow. There is our camping gear opened to show the offerings. I didn't catch this one. I am standing in my Mama's front yard. The lucky, appointed family member to watch as the world comes in and swoops up the leftovers of our life. My mother owes me a million bucks but I don't want her to be here. All of these items were of great value to us but to others, great captured bids and deals. The woman who bought my great-grandmother's china, Gold Castle, said she was eager to take it home. My Mimi had purchased the china, piece by piece at Kress Five and Dime a very long time ago. The new owner should make me happy. At least, I didn't cry.

Thursday was the day for tears. And it was raining and storming but we drove down anyway. My parents lived in their home for thirty years. I had just become a new mother when they re-located to the southern part of the state. My sister and I were thrilled to have them only an hour away. The lack of distance had saved all of us, many a time.

Mama and I and Glory, my new pup, walked through every room. Many of the sale items were in boxes, on the floor or on the furniture. The electricity was still on but not every room had lamps. The draped and shuttered windows squelched out even the dismal day.

Every room, every drawer, every closet. We weren't looking for things missed in our packing. Just go in your favorite room and imagine the leavings, the items you couldn't squeeze into storage or stuff into another box or pawn off onto a millennial child. Even the gleanings could hold the best. The best of things.We had had the best of things. 

The fifteen color designer wall paper in the computer room. A week of chickenpox. Two heads leaning in, looking at their first computer.  

The guestroom of a million guests - family and friends feted and dined in style. A room of relaxation with a sticking door. A retreat from the holiday festivities or funeral visitors.

The hall bath, with a huge mirror and vanity lighting, had been in its prime thirty years ago. Two families could lay out makeup bags and toiletries. The world's best shower head that we had "argued" over, who would get it in the will.  But no will in this departure. She wouldn't let us take it out and replace it with a newer, weaker version. Maybe the new owner didn't even know his shower of luck. 

Now my mother was leaving behind the best shower ever. And a yard full of tall trees and sticks and more sticks. Must not have sticks in the yard. The exercise of bending over and over and cracking the bigger ones with her foot. A full garbage can of stuck up sticks dragged to the curb. The forlorn piece of ground ringed with brick where dozens of  Apricot Beauty tulips had slowed traffic in annual around town spring sights.

She was emphatic she was not leaving a place. Her house was still her home, she still had friends to call on and she could still be sitting on the front row of FBC even though she did not agree with the SBC. She has always been fearless even when awakened by the City's Best at 3 a.m. on her front stoop. Wrong house. She was not leaving in fear. I believe her because I know her. 

Just like her mother, she has always been business minded. And fiercely independent. But much more pragmatic. She has chosen to move on her timeline. She will tell people her children "made" her move. That is a popular sentiment in the retirement community. But in her heart, she knows it was a decision she made and for good reasons. Primarily, for her eye. And also because she secretly knows a steady diet of Cheetos and walnuts washed down with Coca Cola and followed by a Magnum Chocolate Bar is not healthy. Maybe it helps that I am now ten minutes down the road but do not think for one minute she has not already driven to Walmart and Best Buy. I love this about her.

The living room was dark, no lamp or overhead light. Thankgoodness. I lost my mascara just sitting in one of the Ethan Allen wing chairs my parents purchased when I was seven. I was proud of those two chairs, even then. I hated not having a place for them in my house. Of course, does anyone really want to part with all of these things. But not things. My tears flooded my face. Glory looked up at me. I cried to say goodbye to every person I had loved since seven. Every word, some good, some bad. Every book. Every picture. Every nap. Every kiss. Every prayer. The room was full. The chair was full.

I was determined to eat one last meal on my beloved mahogany dining table with eight chairs plus leaves. I always dreamed of having it in my own dining room, designed by my architect husband just like Architectural Digest.  If I could offer my Mama a bribe. I would imagine it set with my china and the new fabric I would use to cover the seats. Most of all, the simple, elegant family dinners - just like Mama's. I would never forget the dinner my parents gave for our pastor and his wife, when I was little. While Dr. Howard stood very tall in the pulpit, Jesus towered over him in stained glass. It was almost like having Jesus at the table. My last supper was Popeye's Chicken. I don't imagine that table had ever had a chicken breast and a biscuit. My Mama doesn't fry chicken.

Despite all of Daddy's scrambled eggs and buttermilk fudge, Mama's Pot Roast and summer vegetables and chocolate pies and Billie's unforgettable, exquisite ham, the kitchen was unmovable. It did have one of the three house windows not painted shut which made it an exit, onto an ancient sofa about eight feet down from the sill. If you made it to the kitchen.

The laundry room smelled of Tide which we are still wrapped up in with every step in life. The back of the laundry room door marked up with pencil. The lines and dates of three grandchildren and the running race of heights in a competition dependent on spurts and calcium.

Much of Mama's bedroom furniture was a part of the auction. The room didn't look empty. She took her favorites to furnish her new apartment. I don't feel sorry for her and her balcony overlooking a park. I am concerned about the cat but that issue depends on how high is too high.

The master bath's only claim to fame is the other window which is not painted shut. The exit in case of emergency. The third and last exit is in the bedroom. But in fairness, it is a cheap security system. No fancy screens or storm windows. Just break the glass in case of emergency.  

The closets aren't big but are lighted when the door opens. Louvered doors. A very high end part of the house built by a builder known for solid, comfortable homes. I stepped inside Daddy's closet, remembering all of the crisp cotton shirts, fine wool suits and natty ties which made up his work uniform, always the best advertisement for the quality of The Store. Nothing in excess but everything the best. He would be lecturing me right now about the state of my excess.

At night, when the doors are bumped, the light comes on. My mother asked him what was going on. Daddy said he'd fallen and wondered what time it was. She asked him curtly, why do old people always want to know what time it is in the middle of the night? She got out of bed and sat down next to him. Nothing was hurting him but they agreed the two of them could not stand up and get him into the bed. She made a call. Help was on the way. Waiting on the floor, I imagine they were talking about sticks in the yard or his next dialysis. Since second grade, a never-ending conversation more breathing than words. Then the flurried arrival of the paramedics who could see a situation going south. Mama said "Darling, I'm calling Amy." The next couple of minutes he lay breathing quietly on a gurney, covered by a blanket. She looked in his eyes and told him, Jesus is coming for you. He believed.

It is not the things we can't stand to let go, although at some point in my auction I wanted to start grabbing things and run people out of my house so I could just sit in the wing chair and lose every tear in my body. We can hold a thing or nail it to the wall or bring it out of a pretty box for the holiday. But it's the place, the where, the first, the last. The air and the slant of the sun or lighted stripes falling out on the rug at 3 o'clock in the morning - I want to grab. The sacred minute which is not mine to hold but will always be there a few feet from the closet. The life experiences which take our breath away. The wonder of a well-loved home.

AN ODD COUPLE: COFFEE AND THOMAS WOLFE

Gurgle, gurgle, bump,bump.  Drippy, drippy, drip, drip.  This is the sound of my magic elixir machine brewing the pot of liquid jolt necessary to begin my day.  Maybe not necessary.  I can jump out of bed and function in an emergency situation but not by choice.  In that case, I grab a cold Red can from the fridge and perform the same task but with a cold start.

I remember drinking my first samples of coffee when I was very, very young at my great-grandmother's house.  Maybe I was 4 or 5, with just as many tablespoons of sugar and milk and a couple of dollops of hot coffee.  She had the cutest little wooden spoon holder of a Dutch boy and girl.  That is a place I would love to go back and visit.  What a great way to get hooked on caffeine. 

When I was growing up, caffeinated beverages were a treat, not a daily part of my life.  Even though my grandparents owned a hotel and had a cold drink box in the corner of the lobby, I had to ask permission before I could reach my hand into the freezing water and retrieve a bottle.  When I was six, we took our first big camping trip to Colorado.  I had my first fountain drink of Coca-Cola (nectar of the gods).  Being in the mountains, this new type of drink became a "mountain" drink in my vocabulary.   

My serious coffee drinking began in seventh grade using freeze-dried nuggets.  It is a wonder that I kept drinking the stuff.  I do keep a small jar in the pantry for cooking purposes or to grab for the allusive camping out experience, just like the plastic box in the garage containing all items required to equip a camping kitchen big enough for a small regiment.  Always, the just in-case, never must throw out or give away an item that may be necessary if a camping excursion were to commence on a moment's notice.  This is required to keep an old Boy Scout in good standing.  And the sleeping bags of uncertain condition after twenty years of little use.  I have become a real bed person.  Tie that to the top of the car.

Speaking of travelling like the Joads.  Once on vacation in Washington, D.C. I remember all of us climbing out of our brand-new minivan, which was packed to the gills.  Burt had just managed to park the car, which is no small feat in that city were the majority of the vehicles are small and convenient.  When travelling there, one will notice the rarity of the SUV's, trucks and vans that we Southern folks are partial to. Our niece was also travelling with us.  Princess and her cousin had been fighting over who was sitting where, almost for the entire trip.

A couple of  "sophisticated" young Washingtonians walked by and laughed, remarking about our license plate and the President.  It was a very tacky thing to do, especially to a tourist but more is the pity.  Afterall, I doubt they had ever been to the President's birthday party or stopped to offer him a ride on a cold January morning when he was jogging.  Bless their heart. 

We had more camping equipment than luggage.  On the return trip home we were driving through the Carolina's and we already had a camping spot picked out. 

                                                   An earlier trip to Carolina


Burt had only heard tales about this magical nook, the world's most beautiful camping spot, nestled in the mountains.  Away from the dirt-packed campsite, a green lawn of  moss led down to a cold, mountain stream which shimmered when a slice of sun filtered through the trees, reflecting off the smooth chips of Mica glistening   Nearby, a small swimming lake held waters too cold to swim in, even in August.  A bath house offered showers so frigid that young children were not required to bathe, especially after the experience of a screaming mother.

My family made the trek twice to camp in this very same spot.  For many years, we exchanged Christmas cards with a neighbor camper, a woman who pitched a tent in that same beautiful glade, and resided there as long as the NPS would allow.  Despite our best preparation, the rain would keep us away from the hallowed campsite on this trip.  Hopefully, Burt will someday get the chance to set up camp there.

When one is driving home from Maine, a diversion through the Carolinas is a must.  And a blessing in disguise.  My mother, father and I had not traveled this scenic route in decades.  The road wound along the very edge of a rushing mountain river full of boulders that looked like a gully God had rolled His marbles down just to see where they would land.  A metal guard rail clung to the most precarious edges as the curves prevented any high speed.

We saw the sign for the swimming lake first.  It still looked cold.  The bathhouse was still standing.  We got back into the car and drove to the campsite.  The Thursday afternoon was fairly quiet and not yet impacted by the certain influx of campers that would soon seek a beautiful October weekend.

I pulled into the parking spot beside the campsite.  Decades of growth had encompassed the site and with all things when looking back, the place seemed smaller.  A favorite of my father, native son Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again."  And it is better not always knowing, the last.

But with memory, I walk the laurel-lined pathways of the campground of happy times.  With my sister, my parents and my cousin.   I see tiny garnets shaking together in the bottom of a cup.  The smell of carrots, corn, onions and potatoes cooking with hamburger for our camping goulash.  The feel of the slips of mica peeled away in delicate layers, a fairy's mirror.  The gurgle of a moss-banked stream and water too cold for feet.  But the perfect temperature for submerged cans of sweet refreshment.  Tucked into a warm sleeping bag, the sounds of the night in low voice.  Just in sight, on the other side of the table, my parents sitting in folding chairs with their feet propped on the outside rocks of a campfire, each cupping a small, plastic cup with steam rising, and the smell of coffee on the camp stove, as they each pause and take a sip between the words of their life's conversation as it drifts high into the trees, forever caught in the canopy of this magical glade.



signed,

a woman who will return






In memoriam of the 75th anniversary of the passing of Thomas Wolfe, a reception will be held Saturday, September 14, 2013, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. at the Thomas Wolfe Memorial State Historic Site followed by a viewing of his childhood home.  Ashville, North Carolina

( I discovered this by accident today, when I was doing research.)

THE COTTAGE HOMECOMING

On Saturday, we took the afternoon to visit a couple of the local sights that we are always reading about in the paper and saying, “Oh, that would be we fun, let’s do that!”  I think it was the hottest day of the year but on rare occasion, the oppressive heat has to be temporarily ignored in order to fulfill a promise. 

 

Burt had a place he wanted to take me, a local, organic eatery which is re-purposing a former Mom and Pop corner dairy bar.  I am in agreement with the positive reviews.  I have had two special taste treats this week.  You can go weeks without anything new and different.  Earlier in the week, I had stopped at a gas station for sustenance for a fifteen minute drive home.  Anyone will tell you, I always get the same thing, a brand name beverage.  Rarely, rarely will I purchase food cooked on site.  On this day, I bought a Dr. Pepper Iccee, something I had never seen before.  As I like to say, “Taste Sensation.”  I will have to drive back over to get another one, sometime.  And now on Saturday, the delicious little hippie shop was offering a Shitake Mushroom Burger.  And awesome French fries.  I bet there is a mushroom or two in my next shopping basket. 

 

On the way downtown, we decided to drive by our first house.  This is the time of the year that anything that might be slightly neglected looks hot, dusty and dried out, like our front yard.  And it has been watered this summer, for the most part. 

 

We turned onto the street.  My heart sunk.  I guess I had not driven by recently.  This is an older neighborhood, located about two neighborhoods away from the edge of the hood, which was not a concern when we purchased the house because gangs and related gang activities had not yet shown up in our city.  We had had wonderful neighbors, many were the original homeowners, and the pride of ownership was always evident, except for the strange couple who had a child’s headstone by their front steps.   

 

The difficulty we had in leaving this home is many, many years behind us.  But the process of selling was the culmination of four years of waiting, hoping and praying.  Not in equal amounts were dashed hopes and the cruel almost.  Everything that isn’t supposed to happen pending a sale, happened.  Less than two weeks from the final sale, the prospective buyer changed their mind all because of $15 dollars.  Supposedly, they had purchased new furniture for the house and when the mortgage amount was totaled, it was all too much.  I could tell them a thing or two about too much.  Finally, six months later, we sold our cottage and bought the mansion.

 

After living there twelve years, the cottage was much loved.  Maybe 1100 square feet on a bright day, the house had beautiful hardwood floors, good woodwork, lots of windows, the cherished attic fan and numerous oak trees.  It didn’t have central heat/air, a dishwasher/disposal, dryer outlet and more than one bath.  It was filled with the voices and laughter of almost all of our loved ones, the view from the back door of a little girl hanging off the swing set or chasing her puppy, the view from the front door of policemen coming down the street with guns drawn, the salt from sobbing tears in the bad years, the fragrant rosebush planted in Pa’s memory, and the new Daddy placing our new baby in my arms to carry into a loving home.    

About five years after we moved, Burt came home and said, “They have grass!”  After the third owner in five years, I decided to drive by and see the grass growing in places we had only dreamed about.  I was happy to see the cottage reflecting the same pride of ownership we had felt, but with more funding.  Seeing the open door, I walked up the new, level, smooth sidewalk.  The owner was thrilled to meet me.  Soon I was standing in my old living room, admiring the work she and her husband had done, especially the new laundry room and second bath. 

After a good visit, she walked me to the door.  Standing on my old porch, I remembered a tyke on a trike hitting the bottom step over and over, on purpose, when the walk was uneven and low.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a rosebush I planted following my grandfather’s death.  Suddenly, I had a revelation.  The day Pa had come to see his first great-grandbaby, he had stood in that exact spot trying to see through the clouds of macular degeneration, just for a glimpse of the Concorde flying overhead.  The next year, I planted the rose in that very spot because of the good sun.  But it took all these years later, perhaps prompted by all the memories swirling while visiting my beloved cottage; a homecoming, I realized the connection.  The rose bush had remained; strong and giving, just like my Pa.    

 

The tall oak trees still shade the street and the yards.  Always before, things had changed so little in our part of the neighborhood that it felt like I’d just been away on a long trip, but not this day.  Then we drove past our little cottage.  The little red brick cottage sat on the lot as it always had, clean and tidy with green grass freshly mowed.  I didn’t think to look for the rosebush.

 

We continued down the main thoroughfare towards downtown, to another neighborhood that has gone through economic downturn and natural disasters.  City blocks of wide open spaces cleared after a disaster.  Surviving homes and businesses are beginning to enjoy a revival, even brand new home construction – the ultimate currency of economic hope for any neighborhood. 

 

Burt stopped in front of one of those empty lots.  We were there, parked at the curb, next to the brick sidewalks that had fronted the cottage of my piano teacher, Mrs. Ransom.  I had completely forgotten about the Yucca plants that had been in her yard.  They were hiding a couple of concrete steps, barely recognizable under the thick foliage.  Standing tall in the yard, was her magnolia tree, the tree that had been stripped by a tornado.  And in the aftermath, someone had left the bare stick in the ground, alone.  Maybe, in not too many years, a new house will be built around the exotic Yucca plants in the front yard and the towering Magnolia with big dark green leaves ; a new homecoming.