Life Under Construction

Posts Tagged ‘The Gray House’

One of the things I heard most often as a small child was “Take your sister and go play outside.  And stay out of The Gravel Pit.”

Of course that’s right where we headed.

In the way back of our backyard at The Gray House was a hill you could drive a car down that led straight to The Gravel Pit.  Almost at the bottom of the hill there was a little path through the woods that led to The Old Oak Tree (basically just an old tree that had fallen down that we claimed as a fort), so Alli and I would veer right down that path to go to The Old Oak Tree just in case.  I mean, you couldn’t see the path or The Old Oak Tree from the house but we were kids and being overcautious.  We didn’t want to get in trouble!  Alli and I usually climbed on the fallen tree (that wasn’t really an oak tree, but how were we supposed to know that?) and sat for what we deemed was an appropriate amount of time in case mommy came looking for us, then we’d sneak the remaining twenty feet or so to the edge of The Gravel Pit and run around the very edge to another path we’d discovered toward the very back.  It was a weird place we found, and we got in trouble one time because we definitely couldn’t hear anyone calling for us from there, but we liked it.  There was a discarded mattress we could jump on without getting in trouble.  There were some old baseball cards (my favorite was a Darryl Strawberry – I didn’t know anything about baseball at the time except that my dad said Rocket Roger was the best pitcher and Wade Boggs had a hole in his glove – and I really liked strawberries….) we’d look at and it was just our extra special secret place.

There was an unspoken code of honor when Alli and I were kids.  The I won’t tell if you won’t code.  And even then if one of us slipped up and told on the other, the offended party wouldn’t retaliate.  Because to retaliate would mean that we probably got into MORE trouble with the grownups, and if there was anything we understood as children it was that we had to stick together.  We understood what it meant to get in trouble, and we understood what we had to do to keep each other and ourselves OUT of trouble.

As we’ve gotten older that code has sort of dissolved.  I’m still the big sister, the protective one (the enabler).  But instead of being my partner in crime, Alli has taken another path through the woods so-to-speak.  She’s on some super secret path of her own that I can’t see ever going down, and our only interaction is when she reaches out because she wants something or needs something.  Do we adventure anymore?  No.  Not together, at least.  Our friendship, like our partnership, has started to dissolve over time.

The Old Oak Tree is crumbling and breaking and decayed.  The secret path to the discarded mattress and our super secret hideout is no longer discernible through the forest.  And Alli and I can’t rely on each other the way we used to.  Sometimes growing up is no fun.

But no matter what happens, I’ll always always always love my little sister.

I’m going to tell you this story about how I hijacked a van when I was a wee child, somewhere around ripe old the age of 5 or 6.

Not to be confused with the time that same year I had decided to see what smoking a cigarette was like when my mom left one burning in the ashtray of the old blue Chevette in the driveway at The Gray House to run back into the house to grab something, and thought I would die but hid my discomfort because I didn’t want to get in trouble as she came back out and got in the car to take me to I Don’t Remember Where.  Yeah.  Not to be confused with that day.

We were in the van – I don’t remember who’s van it was – in the driveway of my grandparents’ new house (( at least I’m pretty sure that’s where we were… I think… )) with both of my sisters, Alli and Sarah, and our cousin Jerin.  I don’t know how I got the notion in my head that pulling the lever next to the steering wheel was a good idea (( come to think of it now, there might have been a lit cigarette involved here, too )), but I did it and suddenly we were in what I now know to be ‘neutral’ and the van was slowly rolling backwards.

Toward the street.

I was crying in the front seat while Sarah and Jerin were panicking, and Alli was “reading” a Winnie The Pooh or Where’s Waldo? book – completely oblivious to what was going on the entire time.

Where were the grown ups, you ask?  And why were we children often left unattended in vehicles?  Well, I’ll tell you.

It was the late 80’s.  There were no rules about leaving children or pets unattended in vehicles for any period of time (( or wearing seat belts, for that matter )).  I mean really, how much trouble could 4 kids aged 11 and under get into while waiting in a van in the driveway?

Quite a bit, the grown ups learned, as my uncle ran around the back of the van to try and stop it from rolling into the road.  I’m pretty sure Sarah jumped out too and was trying to help him, but I was in full on panic mode by that point (( what can I say, I started early )) and all I remember from between fits of sobs is that a) Alli in all her 4 year old glory was still oblivious to what was going on, and 2) I was terrified that my sister and uncle were getting sucked under a gigantic moving vehicle and it was all my fault.

Oh, and I think the front driver side door was open beside me.

That’s a lot for a small child.

The sun is disappearing over the horizon that is 2009.

I’m so deep, I know.

Four days until the start of the new year.  I feel rather reluctant to leave 2009 behind, so I suppose it’s a good thing that time doesn’t consult me before moving ahead.  I’m sure that if it did I’d still be 6 years old, living in The Gray House, spending my days climbing giant mounds of dirt and hanging out at The Old Oak Tree.

But alas, each day is ending and bringing me closer to 2010.

It’s scary, not knowing what is coming.  I like plans.  I like when things are set in stone, and when there are no surprises.  My skin is cold with anxiety just thinking about it.

At the same time, I know that in approximately three months my best friend is coming home.  We will no longer have to live via telephone wires and internet waves.  We’ll have this whole new life, and I’m excited for it.

But at the same time?  I’m sad.  I’m always sad when things are over.  Even things that weren’t so good to begin with, like old relationships or crummy vacations.  I hate when things end because I don’t know what is coming.

It is for this reason why I hate to finish reading an incredible book.  I know that when I pick it up again, it won’t feel the same.  Will I ever be able to recapture that feeling?  The one where I loved what I found between the pages?  Or right now, nearing the end of the holiday season…  will I ever feel as surrounded by family and tradition as I did this year (when this year I didn’t feel it as much as I have in the past)?  I feel like this every year.  I’m looking forward to the new things to come, and yet I’m sad to leave behind the things I’ve experienced.

Let’s be honest, we all know my memory is crap sometimes.

The new year is coming, and it’s bringing changes with it.  Big, bright, shining changes.  I’m ready for them, but it’s a bittersweet kind of anticipation that I’m feeling.  Kind of like watching the sun go down: you know it happens every night and that the sun comes up every morning, but there’s an ache in your heart as you watch something so beautiful disappear.

For some reason, all day Saturday it felt like Sunday, like I was going back to work the next morning.  It actually felt kind of crummy because I knew I had one day of weekend left but it didn’t feel like I did.

This morning I had this really strange dream that Alli lived with us, and that me and Alli and John had to go to school, only we had to run around town with this other group of adults and kids to find the bus stop, even though the bus stop was supposed to be in front of our house because of John.  Then somebody threw hot chocolate at my head, and I had to run upstairs into my apartment to change, but I couldn’t remember if I had gym class or not so I didn’t know what to wear.  When I got back downstairs all the other people were jogging to where they thought the bus would be next.  I had to run to catch up.

People, I am not a runner.

Then I lost them.  I had to run up one street and down another, but I caught up with them just in time to get on the bus.  I had to sit next to this girl I used to share the bus stop with in high school, and she didn’t like me very much.  She was sort of snobbish.  I wanted to sit with my nephew or Alli, or my friend John who was also at the bus stop.

And the dream I had last night, before I woke up to Sarah and John getting ready for school/work, I was taking Walter to see The Gravel Pit behind The Gray House I used to live in, but when we got there there were tons of people there, and my aunt and uncle were in charge of this large flea market type thing that took up all the space in between the dirt piles.  I was annoyed that so many people were there, because people aren’t supposed to be in The Gravel Pit and I wanted to show Walter by myself.  So we went toward the back where the other ’secret area’ was, and there were houses there!  And a ton of people!  I felt cheated and angry.

But after both of those strange sort of hectic and disappointing dreams, I am in a fairly good mood this morning.  It’s getting to be the time of year where all I want to do is stay in bed.  I go to bed around the same time I do in the summer months, and I sleep past the time I should be awake and showered getting ready for work.  I love sleeping.  I love dreaming.  In the autumn and winter months I like to spend a lot of extra time in my warm, warm bed.

Now I’m off to take a shower, because I’m running late and moving slow, and I do have to get to work on time today.

How was your weekend?  Did you do anything fun?

Day three in the battle against Poison Ivy.

It’s spread a little on my arm, expanding it’s reaches, and it makes me sad.  It’s early yet but the two breakouts on my leg appear to be contained.  For the time being.

Damn you, Poison Ivy.

My plan for last night was to wear pants to bed (which I never do if I can help it) so that it wouldn’t spread from one leg to the other.  But I got so tangled in them that when I got off the phone with Walter around midnight-thirty I had to take them off and put my shorts on, keeping my fingers crossed that it would not spread without the protection of that thin cottony barrier.

Daring, I know.

I did the calculations in my head this morning as I was getting in the shower.  I haven’t had a Poison Ivy attack since we lived in The Gray House, and we moved out of The Gray House in 1994.  It’s been at least 15 years since the last time, probably longer.  Fifteen good, wonderful years.

Now, as the battle rages in it’s early stages I find my fingertips dry from the constant application of Calamine; that pink goo with it’s semi-magical moisture-sucking properties.

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On a completely unrelated note, I’m reading Atlas Shrugged again.  And I dreamed about Walter last night, so I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning.