Another Page in the Book

I had the opportunity to swing through my old home town the other day and I have to say, I was pretty disappointed. It wasn't the way I had remembered it at all.

Everything seemed smaller than I remembered, even the trees. And that struck me as strange because I would think that in all this time, the trees should have grown so much more. But the trees I remember as being so tall, now hang low; overgrown and sagging under their own weight.

I drove along, passing houses that were a lot more boxy than I remembed. As I got closer to my old neighborhood, I drove down the same road I used to walk along to get to my old elementary school. Far down at the end of this road, it bends off to the left and in my mind, this bend is MILES from the side street that leads to my old road. But now when I had reached the side street, I'm stunned that I could see the bend from where I was. Instead of miles, it was only a few blocks away. How could this be? I knew I was on the right road but it felt like my depth perception was way, way off.

I turned down the side street and this felt odd too. This road was also much shorter. Not only was it much shorter, the houses were squished tighter together than they used to be. Weirder than this, the houses seemed strangely close to the road. It was almost claustrophobic, like being in a supermarket where the isles are too narrow.

When I reached my old road, it was a shadow of the way it exists in my mind. It looked like an oddly distorted reflection. Things looked vaguely familiar, but nothing was quite right. The house I grew up in, which I clearly remember, was hard to find. I had to count the houses from the end of the road just to pick it out. The color was wrong and the large trees out front were long gone. Even the lamp post at the end of the driveway was missing.

The park in the center of the street, where I used to play, was about half the size that I remember. The trees I used to climb, like all of the trees I had passed, were overgrown and unkempt. The palatial front yards where I used to play are now a fraction of the size of those in my mind.

There wasn't a soul outside. The whole neighborhood was quiet, the kind of uncomfortable quiet that you not only hear, but the kind you also feel. It was like walking into an empty house when you knew there should be people around. But there were only echos.

Maybe it was because it was a weekday, but something told me this place was a lot more lifeless than it had once been. It was all pretty unsettling.

I think the most disappointing thing was that I didn't see my family there. I think I somehow expected to see Mom leaving in the old Jeepster to go to the A and P. My brother should have been dribbling his basketball in the driveway. And my sisters and I should have been hanging out around the front porch or climbing trees or… something, anything.

And Dad. Dad should have been whistling as he paced by his grill at the end of the driveway, wearing his hat and matted sweater. And maybe, if he somehow managed to see me, he would have smiled and waved, somehow knowing it was me, while the younger me was running around the yard or hanging around him, waiting for a sample.

But none of that happened.

In my mind, my life is made up of volumes of books sitting on a shelf. Everything I’ve ever done, everything I will ever do, is written in these books. In my mind, there is no yesterday or today, it is all happening now, all happening at once. Everything past or present, is as real as as when the words were first put down on paper. Time is somehow meaningless. And just like any other book, the words don't disappear just because the cover is closed. All you have to do is open it to any page and everything is right there.

But when I experience things like this, where things aren't the way I remember, I begin to think that maybe time isn't meaningless.

Deep down though, I know better. I just haven’t figured out how it all fits. It is all part of the same puzzle; part of the same story. Somewhere, that family I remember is still living those things somewhere, while each of us as older versions of ourselves are experiencing our lives today.

Big Plans

Big plans about posting pearls of wisdom regarding how nice it was to have everyone home for Spring Break. It was great, but no pearls of wisdom.

Dirty Laundry

Spring Break

The Long Day

An awful day at work, then paying bills at home and I can’t get the checkbook to balance. Sam comes home from speech and I find that he had an even worse day. His class watched "Jurassic Park" in science and poor Sam isn’t of that disposition. It shows on his face, all of these hours later. He relaxes on the couch for a bit and I let him get lost in his game for a while and then it’s time for him to get into pj’s and fix his bed. Off he goes upstairs.

After a few minutes, I go up to check on him and he’s fixing his bed and the worry is still etched on his face. With echoes of my Dad, I take the monkey puppet and ask him questions about his day and talk to him a bit and try to reassure him and try to give him comfort.

When Sam comes back downstairs, the monkey is at his side. When he heads back up, the monkey goes with him. He climbs into bed at bedtime and he has his arm tightly around the monkey. I cover them both up and kiss Sam goodnight.

In his papers from speech, he’s still working on identifying emotions. One of the things under “Things That Make You Feel Distress” is “seeing dinosaurs eating people”. I'm feeling a little distressed myself.

It was nice to see that one of the things that makes him feel "joyful" was going on walks with me.

Same here.

Life is Fleeting

Hot Tip

Here's a tip for when you're baking:

If you're going to make banana bread, say, with chocolate chips, before you turn the hot loaf upside down in your hand to get it out of the pan, make sure the bread is done in the middle and not a hot goopy mess.

Otherwise, it's possible that the scalding batter mixed with the melted chocolate chips might sear onto your hand like napalm, causing you to wave your hand in the air with sharp, jutting motions in a vain attempt to shake free of the burning batter.

It also might result in a loaf of bread that looks not unlike your batter-fried hand.

Right:                                           Wrong:

Building a Snowman

Another day, another snowstorm. This one wasn't as deep as the last one. But at this point, it's a little like saying that this ice pick jabbing me in the eye is a little smaller than the last one that was jabbing me in the eye.
But it could have been worse. Sure, it was heavy, wet snow, but it's the kind that's good for making snowballs. I had things cleared pretty quickly.

Amazingly, when I was nearly done, Sam decided to come outside. This is almost unheard of: coming outside, of his own free will. Usually it's like pulling teeth to get him outside, never mind on a cold winter's day, in a snowstorm. But there he was, all geared up in his camo parka and snow pants (camo for any other time of the year that is, except winter).

"Sam, do you want to shovel?"
"No."
"Want to help brush off the cars?"
"Um,...not really."
"What would you like to do?"
"Uh, I don't know", he shrugged.

He shuffled a bit over by a snow bank and looked lost. Did he want to go back inside? It seemed like a lot of work to get dressed up to come out, only to head back in.He came out for a reason, even if he can't say.

It hit me that it's been years since he made a snowman. So long ago in fact, that when I asked him how long it's been, he couldn't remember if he ever had. I doubt I would have been able to remember the last time either if I hadn't taken a picture; a picture that is REALLY old.

So I said, "Come on Sam, let's go out front and make a snowman."
"Uhhhhh ... ok", said Sam. The enthusiasm was not flowing.

We went out front and climbed up on the snowbank and we got the bottom part of the snowman started together. Sam helped me role and pat the growing snowball to keep it together, and we rolled it around the yard leaving snake-like patterns as we went. Sam picked out the spot where it should go and we rolled the snowball over to the spot until we got it just right. I got Sam started on a ball for the torso and I worked on the head. Together, we got them stacked one on top of the other and secured as best we could. I found some branches for the arms and Sam told me where to put them. I ran around back and got some pieces of charcoal for the eyes. We didn't have any carrots for the nose and Sam didn't like the idea of celery, so it was another stick for the nose and a curved stick for the smiling mouth.

Sam and "Frosty"

With the job well done, Sam let me snap a couple of photos... and then we went inside.

As he pealed off his jacket and snow pants, Sam complained how hot we was, and he plunked himself down to rest.

From time to time I would walk to the front window and look out at the snowman. "What a nice looking snowman", I would say. Sam was looking straight ahead at the TV, absorbed in his video game. "Yup, what a nice looking snowman." I said again. "I heard you the first time", Sam said.

"Oh. Well, don't you think he's nice?"
"I guess so", Sam says. His eyes never left the TV set.
"Well, I think he's pretty nice"
"Yeah", Sam said, in that way he has when he doesn't want to hurt someone's feelings.

Later, I made a couple more vain attempts to elicit any kind of response from Sam, but it was clear I wasn't going to engage him in any kind of conversation about this. Here I thought this would be something fun to do together; something to share with each other. But I guess it was more for me than Sam, which is fine. I just wish he had enjoyed it too.

I was completely surprised when Sam came home from speech therapy on Wednesday night with his worksheet. Among other activities, Sam had to list three things that make him happy. One of them was making a snowman with "my parents".

I'm glad it meant something to both of us.