Friday, June 28, 2013

The Imaginarium

Where can you find a race-track, a haunted house with ghosts, a circus, flying carpets, a candy store and Queen’s throne all in one place?  To Grandmother’s house we go…


Race Car Drivers

My best memories are at your house in St. Paul on Nebraska Ave.  The two-story white house with green shutters.  The orange newspaper box tucked up against the house behind the bush. The metal handrail ran up the steps to the big front door with the curtains behind the window. The tall chain-link fence that surrounded the back yard covered with the grape vines. The grapes that were a waste to a little kid because they were sour but they were for wine anyways. Tricky and poisonous like the apple in Snow White.

The house sat on a corner of Nebraska and Victoria, a very busy street.  There was a large oak tree in the front yard.  Your neighbor accused me of picking the bark off it and said I was killing the tree.  She lied.  I did not like her. She was crabby all the time.

The garage was detached and sat up against the busy street- Victoria.  You had a covered car stall next to it with huge wooden fence like doors which closed with a long metal latching arm on the inside.  Sometimes Grandpa would open it so we could ride our big wheels in a huge circle around the entire yard and house.  

We began at the front of the house by the front stoop. We peddled as fast as our little stick legs could take us down the front walk, then throw on the hand brake against the plastic wheel and skid sideways with a few little hops while we made the sharp turn on the corner.  We raced down the sidewalk that ran along the busy street.  This was the longest straight stretch of good clean fast sidewalk so we had to take advantage and gain momentum.  Rags, the Schnauzer or Riches, the Golden Retriever, were like race horses galloping down the inside fence line to pace us waiting for us to reappear on the ‘other side’.

As we approached the open car-port, we slammed on the brakes again and skidded into the car port cave and thru to the back sidewalk trying not to tip over.  The plastic black wheels were worn and even had holes in them for so much speed.  This lead us up the tunnel like sidewalk alongside the grapevine covered fence to the back stoop.  Rags or Riches would pick up with us and race us down the fence again until we hit the brakes again at the back stoop.  This was a tricky corner because the large wooden barrel, which caught the water run-off was partially blocking our path just off the porch.  The four-season porch created a few more sharp curves alongside the house, next to the crabby ladies house.  I did not like her. 

We whizzed along the windy narrow sidewalk back towards the front.  And Boom! - lap one done.  We use to time ourselves to see how fast we could go without tipping over.   We wore holes in those heavy-duty plastic wheels!

Little Squares of Joy

The caramel jar was one of my favorites.  The glass jar next to Grandpa Ray’s big green leather chair.  Always filled with those soft chewy squares of pure happiness.  Being from a family of nine did not permit many sweets to last long or even be purchased at home.  So the mile walk to grandma’s house was worth it.  Even if you had to pass the scary Cujo dog and the crumbling white wall to get there.   I must have walked past your house thousands of times during my youth. We passed it going to school on the city bus, riding my bike to work at House of Wong, going to the DQ for Rags or Riches’ birthday and a million other times.  It was at the slight bend in the road.

The Rugs

The thick red and gold striped wool rugs were like a sea of magic carpets.  They covered the entire living room floor and flowed into the dining room along a path that allowed small children from falling into the hot lava that lurked below.  Stay on the rugs and stay safe  - from Grandma and the lava.

The  CHAIR

The wooden high chair. It was the throne of the kingdom.  The lava lurked below but Rags or Riches was always there to catch your food before it got incinerated below.  Sometimes they just felt the need to save me from the poisons trapped in spinach or beets so they sacrificed themselves and took the bullet right from my hand. Man’s best friend.

The Swing and Trapeze

The circus lurked below the main stage.  Tromping down the wooden steps to the basement beheld to greatest secret ever.  Our very own mini-circus! We had our own real wooden swing hanging from the ceiling but the trapeze was a thing of wonder and amazement.  Coolest Grandparents ever to have real flying trapeze which allowed me to fly threw the air like a true circus performer.  There was even a toilet and shower right there out in the open to cool off after such a strenuous performance. No walls, curtains or doors!


The Ghosts

Going upstairs was another adventure all together.  The ceilings seemed to cave in on me as I crawled further up towards the second floor. Grandpa’s room had a huge bed (which we weren’t allowed to jump on) with four wooden posts that almost touched the sky.  The white bed -spread was always neat and tidy but had those little tiny bumps all over it.  My skin was all polka-dot like after taking ‘forced naps’ on it. A form of torture.  The basement circus was so much better.

However, looming around the corner was the ‘other bedroom’.  This is where the ghosts lived.  It used to be my mom and aunt’s room.  I would lie in bed at night and watch as the ghosts raced across the ceiling, some fast, some slow.  The sounds of the busy street below as the cars and buses hurried to their next destination.  I only knew their headlights seeped thru the blinds and flashed against the angled ceilings keeping me deep under my covers hoping the monsters under the bed would get them before they got me unless of course, the burning lava melted the monsters.  This was a scary room and I only had to sleep in it before our road trips to Montana to see my cousins over the summer. It was well worth the one night of sheer panic.



Grandma’s house was a playground like no other – An Imaginarium.



Wednesday, June 5, 2013

There are no Mulligan's in the game of LIFE.

Life.  A simple four letter word. A four letter word that carries a great deal of weight. Without life, we are nothing. We simply do not exist - right? Death is a part of life but we should have the opportunity to live it.

Death happens every day.  Death takes lives in many ways.  Natural causes, accidents, illness, suicide, murder and old age. I feel as I get older, death creeps up around me more and more.  Or I am just more aware of it. Either way, I find myself thinking about death more frequently.  I'm not certain whether this is a good thing or a bad thing but feel both serve a purpose.

My maternal grandfather's death was my first real experience with death that impacted me.  He died of cancer. My father's death was my second unforgettable experience with death.  His death impacted my life in numerous ways which I have discussed in previous blog posts. In both instances, I learned something about myself and life.  Some of the lessons truly sucked and I am thankful to have learned from them regardless.

Most recently, I attended a friend's memorial/funeral.  A young woman not even 30 years old yet and her life stolen from her in a violent manner.  It makes me sad.  It makes me angry. It makes me doubt the good in people.  It makes me wonder when did our society take a dive off the deep end?  When did it become common place for one to take another's life? Why have we accepted the violence, abuse and cruelty which has become a part of everyday life?  Why do we glamorize it through the media?   We are always left with more questions than answers.

I don't have a solution. I don't have an answer.  I struggle with what is important in my life? What isn't important?  What should I worry about? Should I be doing something different? Am I wasting my life?  Am I happy with my life? How will I know what is the right way to live my life? Will I know? Should I know?

I do know I am tired of seeing women murdered by their significant others.  There have been at least half dozen women murdered by their spouses, boyfriends or significant others in Minnesota in the last 6-8 months. What has gone so terribly wrong that one cannot just walk away and allow each to live their life as they see fit? Why do we feel we have the right to inflict pain and suffering on others?

Somewhere along the way, society has failed. Society as a whole is responsible.  We have all looked the other way.  It's not 'our' problem. We do 'our' part. Some people just can't be helped or can they? Yes, we are all accountable for our own actions.  But maybe, just maybe, if we all took a stand when the opportunity presents itself and do the right thing - the outcome would be different -  a chain reaction of sorts.  Pay it forward in a sense.  Quit thinking it's someone else's problem to solve. Take the initiative and try to be part of the solution instead part of the problem.  Put a stranger's needs before your own and see what happens. Think about a time when you wish someone would have stepped up to the plate for you.

There are no mulligan's in Life.