Memories of a Living House

It’s silly to some that a house could be a living being; a place filled with voices and glimpses of memories, resting on deep, deep roots.  It can take years to build such a place, and sometimes you don’t realize it has been created until it is gone.

            We were met with shaking news yesterday. Our childhood home had been destroyed by fire.  Although my parents had moved out while I was in University, it was still in their possession, and it was the last place I lived before I “grew up”.

            The place was thick with memories: the sound of screaming fights between sisters; the smell of mom’s meatloaf; the rough feel of the front railing that I was supposed to sand.  I can picture the laminate kitchen floor, and the back entranceway with all of dad’s ball caps hanging above the door. There was the wood trim Dad had brought to its original glory, the TV room where Lord knows what was hidden under the couch, my sister’s room where guinea pigs multiplied, my brother’s room where the ceiling fell in, and my parent’s room where the most significant discussions in my life happened while mom folded laundry.

            The big front window was where my friends and I hid on our last Halloween night after egging several cars that drove by.  Mom physically kicked my butt and said, “The dumbest thing you can do is come here to hide! Now they know who you are!”

I had to wash the neighbour’s car the next morning.

            Dad built us a “fort” outside, too sturdy to be any fun.  The maple trees filled our yard with bright orange leaves each fall.  We played soccer and baseball in the backyard with our cousins every summer.  Watercolour paints, brushes, dry muffins and a cup of tea surrounded mom regularly at the dining room table.

            For me, as for any teenage girl, my room was sacred.  When voting for who would get the large attic as a bedroom, I won by sheer tidiness (not the case anymore) as my sister continually got lost in her belongings.  For years I arranged and rearranged the furniture in my gigantic room, blasted rock music to the rafters after a bad day at school, and cried my eyes out when rejected by a boy.  I would sit at the bottom of the stairs and gab to my girlfriend with the phone cord stretched through the crack in the attic door so my mom wouldn’t hear.

            I chose my path in life here, I found Jesus Christ here, and I stood at the front door in my awful prom dress with my awful prom date and got my awful photo taken (which is now destroyed) here.

I played the piano every night while my parents patiently pretended they could sleep through it here.

            And I spent endless hours sitting on the front porch ironically wishing I lived somewhere else, and was born to a different family here. 

Such is the life of a teenage girl.

            With a faith that promotes not looking on the things of this world, I believe the Lord gives us beautiful things because He knows we need love, enjoyment, comfort and safety.  As I look on the pictures of the melted siding, the broken wooden scalloped tiles, and the smoke billowing out of what was once my room, my heart is broken. 

I know tomorrow I will get over it and realize it is just a house.  But today I will mourn. 

Man, I loved that house.

The Rescue (or The Break and Enter)

The internet was down in our little village today.  All satellite connections, telephone (landlines and cells), and interac were not working.  It was strange.  Business owners were standing outside with nothing to do, I bought a purchase with a handshake, (you can do that in a little town) and we actually had to walk to a neighbour’s house for a chat instead of via facebook.

So, midmorning, Little Miss and I went a few blocks over for tea at a friend’s house.  I walked, she ran back and forth.  We had planned it weeks ago, but were unable to double check with all communications down.  I explained to Little Miss that our friend may not be there, and that it will be nice just to go out for a stroll.  I had a note in my back pocket to leave in case we missed her.  Again, I couldn’t send an email. 

We were excited to see her van in the drive.  We rang the doorbell and peered through the side window, looking into the foyer.  The lights were off but we could see her infant car seat sitting there empty.

“She has to be there.” I said, “Maybe she’s in the bathroom.” (It’s happened before).  We rang the bell a couple more times, but no one came.  I looked again through the window and noticed a few more things.  Her shoes were there, as was a small pile of dirt that had obviously been swept up but not lifted into the trash.  I could see a light shining up from the basement.  Alarm bells went off in my mind.

You need to understand that I have a bit of a superhero complex.  (I know that teenagers have the same “complex” but mine is a bit different).  While theirs is the “I’m never going to get hurt” idea, mine is the “let’s save the day” idea.  I constantly go over in my mind different scenarios in which I would save someone’s life.  A lost elderly woman, a cat stuck in a tree, a car going down in the lake – you know, all of the normal things.  In fact, I have spent numerous Sunday mornings asking myself, “If our pastor were to clutch his heart and fall to the ground, how would I save him?” I’d look at who was in council that morning, where his wife was, whether my cell phone was on, and come up with an action plan.

So at the front door of my dear friend’s house, I decided there had to be something wrong.  A gas leak maybe, or perhaps she’d fallen.  I tried the doorknob and it was unlocked.  I poked my head in.  It didn’t smell like gas.  I called.  No answer.  Does she always leave her door open?  I keep calling, wandering to the stairs.  I tell Little Miss to stay at the front door.  As I look around, I see various lamps on, breakfast dishes out, and a vacuum cleaner that looked like it was about to start. 

Had the rapture happened, and I’d been left behind? 

I moved towards the bedrooms, still calling, wondering why I didn’t hear a baby crying.  Suddenly, through a partly open door, I see his little face lying on the bed.  He lifts his little face and gives me a big smile.  It was then that I see a person, covered up, lying beside him.  “Shit,” I think, “What am I going to do?”  Would a baby be that happy if he was lying beside a corpse?

And, in the few seconds it took for me to change my mind, and tiptoe back into the hall, the corpse opened her eyes, jerked her head up in my direction and gave a silent scream.  As my blood pressure dropped, and my heart skipped a beat, I realized that this is why we have internet and cell phones.  We do not live in the dark ages, we do not just “drop by” unannounced.  We facebook!  We email! We twitter! We allow ourselves the freedom to leave our front doors unlocked, and to fall asleep halfway through housecleaning.

Thankfully, my friend sits up and starts to laugh.  "Would you like some tea?" she asks.

Just then, Little Miss (who was supposed to waiting at the front door) wanders into the bedroom.  “Hey, look mom, they have a Justin Beiber doll!” And his latest tune, playing from his belly button, helps calm the atmosphere.

I'm officially hanging up my cape.

A Lamp Post and a Tongue

During a dinner with friends, a show of hands proved that although we were all told NOT to stick our tongues on a lamp post in winter, I was the only one who actually had.

I'd like to think I was testing science, or maybe my mother.

But in remembering the feeling of pulling off part of my tongue in trying to catch the school bus, I knew my mother was right. At least this time.

Man vs. Toe

Several of my stories centre around how Mr. Man has saved the day. He is not always caped, however, and has his Clark Kent moments, and, apparently, his kryptonite.

A couple of weeks ago, Little Miss had a fall and pulled the nail off of her middle toe in the process. We have never seen her in so much pain. She who hurts herself on a regular basis, had hit her pain threshold. I won't go into the details, but Mr. and I changed roles in that instant.

I went into high Mommy gear, yet surprisingly handled the situation (and my emotions) calmly, remembered my first-aid, and talked her through it. Although my heart raced, I was able to put on a good front and deal with her wound.

All the while, Mr. Man was pacing the floor, increasing in volume and colour, tripping on his "cape", and finding it hard to breath as his Little (Lois Lane, if I may) lay in distress. Doors were slammed, shoes were kicked, and the WORDS! Oh, there were words!

When it was all over, he apologized for losing it, and we had an exchange of raised eyebrows, as if to say, "What the hell was that all about?"

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, he came back down to size, and carried her upstairs for bed. His muscles were of use once again.

Downstairs, I washed and pressed his cape, put the band-aids away and had a glass of wine.

Cheers to WonderWoman, for once.

Looking Through a Windshield

Did I ever tell you about the time I was hit by a car? Even my husband doesn't believe me. I was about 18 years-old and visiting a family in northern Ontario. They were a pastor and his family who I'd grown close to; a sporty guy with a wild sense of humour and his sweet wife who cooked, cleaned and looked after anyone who crossed their doorstep.

One night the pastor and I went walking. I think we were headed to the YMCA. When I think back to that night, it was raining and I was wearing my brown leather jacket. I can remember crossing the street at the intersection, and from around the corner came this car.

The car hit me in the legs and knocked me so hard I rolled up onto the windshield. I could see the look of shock on the lady's face as this blond teenager flew up into her view. My friend reached out and grabbed my arm before I flew over the rest of the car, and brought me back down to the street.

The driver got out and asked if I was okay. I could tell she felt bad, worried, and frightened. I felt all right, probably from shock, and told her it was okay. We kept walking. It was really weird. In hindsight, I probably should've gone to the hospital, but we went for a swim instead.

Ironically, the only part of my body that hurt was the arm my friend had pulled to rescue me. Many sessions of physiotherapy ensued.

And the next day, every time someone came to the house, my friend shouted, "YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED TO HER LAST NIGHT! I SAVED HER LIFE!!"

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This summer I ran into my friends again while delivering a wedding cake. We laughed about old times, including this story. Funnily enough, his version involves a lot more of him shouting, running, and lifting me, and the car (and driver) was much bigger.

My version of the story, I think, is closer to the truth and, ultimately, is used as a scare tactic to make my kids hold my hand as we cross the road.