on the radio

While we remodeled our house we lived with my Grandma and Grandpa, across the street from our friend Emily. Emily was in junior high. She had a brother Jon, who was in high school. He wore khaki shorts and rugby shirts and watched MacGyver. His room was a never ending expanse of The Unknown: trophies and yearbooks high atop a shelf, a stereo with speakers bigger than our heads and, a water bed. Jon was the epitome of high school cool, and we knew it.

Emily, being related to Jon, was pretty cool, too. She taught us about the local radio station Q99 and told us that when you're in junior high you don't call your friend and ask if you can "play." Instead, you say, "Can you do something." Or "Do you want to hang out." My sister and I would listen to Emily's tales of junior high, wide-eyed and innocent, in shock that there were kids who would skip class to go smoke in the gully behind the school.

Sometimes, Jon would let us listen to his stereo. For those few moments, we seemed endlessly fly. When Emily came to play at Grandma and Grandpa's, we would steal the radio from the family room and plug it into the socket behind the sofa in front of the big window in the living room. One person was in charge of calling Q99 to request a song, usually Emily, because she had experience with that sort of thing. Indian-style on the wood floor, we'd perch on our elbows on our knees and wait. We'd turn the volume down low low low and stick our ears close to the speakers. I remember worrying Grandpa would find our little secret radio refuge, but it went undiscovered. I felt grown-up, a little mischievous and totally cool.

Nights at the Round Table

Today for work N and I went to look at tables. At one store we saw a round table with a long linen tablecloth that nearly reached the floor. What a tablecloth, we both thought. N began to design accent runners while I imagined making a secret hide-out underneath, perfect for pirates and princesses or an afternoon camp out on a rainy day. Regardless of its purpose, we both thought the cloth to be beautiful and filed it away in our minds for future use.

We have a round table in our kitchen at home. Dad built it at the family shop. It's been in all three houses we've lived in and I suppose life wouldn't be the same without it. It's the perfect size for two to sit and share the newspaper and serves as an impromptu music stand in a string rehearsal if someone has forgotten theirs. (I used to shift my violin music from stand to table just for a change of scenery and a chance to look out the window.) It's the place to perch in the fall to watch the crab apple tree turn brilliant shades of golds and reds just outside the window and in the springtime birds eat breakfast while we do the same. At Christmas it's where we put the Swedish starters like the goat's cheese and the limpa bread to be eaten before Swedish dinner. It's where the angel stands suspending the star and singing praises to the heavens announcing the birth of the Baby Jesus. It's where Mom likes to put the latest high school pottery masterpieces. Currently Rich's creations reign supreme. His brightly colored five-in-one vase is there round the clock. Anyone who comes to visit gets a mini history lesson on Chard's magnum opus.

Upon the table's belly are lovingly plotted purple and green Crayola marker doodles from a day at the red brick house when my sister and I were feeling mischievous. It served as the canvas for play dough sessions on summer afternoons. Once my brother made a big salt dough pretzel and set it out on the table to dry in the sun, all curled and crisscrossed. Upon pretzel removal, like a child's shadow outlined in chalk, was the outline of a pretzel, branded into the wood. I used to trace the lines with my finger when I got bored.

In line today at the store N and I professed our love of round tables to each other, and then bought a square one, but the space calls for square. Round tables foster conversation. They look visually pleasing in a square room, and are easy to cozy up to with a large crowd. And, if you throw a large tablecloth or giant sheet over the top, I'm certain they're the perfect framework for a pretty awesome fort.

Curvy Wurvy

Dad used to drive a gold Mazda GL. If I look long enough during The Early Years slide show in that plays periodically in my head, I can still see it parked in the back of the red brick house. He taught my sister to drive up the private road to the cabin at age twelve (news which wasn't public knowledge, especially to my mother, until years later) and he'd let me shift the gears when it was my turn in the front seat. It was the car Dad drove to the office. The car my parents would take on dates. The car we'd watch for every day at six o'clock in the big picture window, excited when we'd see it turn east on 900 South, Dad's hands on the steering wheel.

Saturdays, Dad drove the little gold Mazda to Don's Service Station at the corner of 21st and 13th where he'd fill up the car for the week. Ever the quintessential neighborhood mechanic, Don knew everyone by name, and took each customer's hand in his grease-stained one upon arrival. He was the kind of mechanic who would check your tires, wash your windows, and, fill up your tank. Not only did Don and his crew in blue shirts provide full-service, they also provided free popcorn in 25 cent bags. So, while Don filled the car and checked the oil, I'd follow closely behind Dad. He'd fill up a bag of popcorn, brimming. Pay for the gas and we'd head out excited to share when we got in the front seat. The unconventional mingling of the smell of popcorn and gas fumes didn't seem to bother me, as it created an unexpected perfume of Saturday memories in my mind.

On weekends, Dad would drive the babysitter home in the gold car. If it wasn't past our bedtime, sister and I got to tag along. Back when seat belts weren't such a necessity (or before we knew better) sister, our favorite babysitter and I would ride toboggan-style, pulling down the seats in the back to lie belly-down. Our legs stuck deep into the the trunk. The headrests our only stability, we'd hold with all our childish might in preparation for what Dad called "Curvy-Wurvy." He'd let go of the steering wheel (which, in our five and six year-old minds was sinful yet heroic at the same time). He'd lift off on the gas and let the car coast towards the edge of the street, missing garbage cans and curb sides by mere inches. Fear and excitement would rise up within me; I'd tuck my head down into my arms and gear up for a crash. Just as I feared we'd begin our own percussion section of a symphony, trash lids strewn about the street like clamoring cymbals, he's grasp the steering wheel and route us back to the center, only to repeat this same pattern of curving and "wurving" through the neighborhood streets, at what we believed in our little minds was warp-speed.

Sometimes, on family road trips, Dad will get this twinkle in his eye. I'll notice it from the rearview mirror. In a "are-you-thinking-what-I'm-thinking?" moment, and, before Mom catches on, his hands come off the wheel, his foot off the pedals, and before we know it, we're headed straight for a green garbage can. We don't wind through the whole neighborhood anymore, but for just a moment, excitement rises up within me, I hold my breath, and cross my fingers we all end up in one piece, including the trash can.

the red brick house

In the red brick house with the round table and the quilt with the big red square, my sister and I shared a room. We had matching bead spreads; white with blue and yellow flowers. We lined our stuffed animals up on the windowsill and at night, Dad would sit between our beds and make up bedtime stories. Sometimes he'd nod off, and from our twin beds we'd shout, "Dad! Dad! Wake up Dad!" There was a laundry shoot and we took turns dropping a bucket full of "surprises" down to each other.

Red tulips poked up through the soil in the spring. The droopy branches of the birch tree made for a shady spot and there was room to roller skate on the cracked driveway. Aunt B picked us up for teddy bear pancakes at Ruth's Diner on Saturdays. And, when the gardening was done, Dad gave us rides in the wheelbarrow, down the sloped driveway and across the street to visit Grandma and Grandpa. In summer, we'd pick mint leaves in the yard to flavor homemade lemonade. We'd set up shop on the corner, shouting at all passers-by and counting quarters when the red thermos was empty. Mom drove us to swimming lessons in the green Volvo. She let us stretch out in our wet suits in the back seat all the way home. In the fall, we walked to school with Emily and raked the yellow leaves that fell from the birch tree.

When we moved from the red brick house into the white house, our flower bead spreads came along. Sister and I no longer shared a room; she slept down the hall. Sometimes, when I was feeling brave, I would sneak into her bed just after she'd fallen asleep. The quilt with the big red square was still neighbors with the round table, as it had been at the old house. There was a bathroom with sparkly butterfly tile and a basement with lots of room to play. We hopped the fence to school, and after Dad got home from work, he'd take us to the playground to shoot hoops or run the 50 meter dash. For our birthdays that November, Emily made sister and me a swing to hang from the tree in the backyard. Dad helped us tie it tight around a strong branch above lots of yellow leaves. I met another girl named Emily who lived at the top of the street. I'd walk home from school with her sometimes. Her Korean nanny would make us Top Ramen for lunch on Fridays. We'd spend the rest of the afternoon playing American Dolls.

My parents don't live that far from the white house. Not far at all. The quilt and table are still the best of friends. The wood swing hangs from a cherry tree which drops lots of yellow leaves each fall. Sister lives in a house of her own, and our bedspreads are long gone. Soon Dad will give grandchildren rides in the wheelbarrow and tell them bedtime stories, perhaps about two little girls who lived in a red brick house.

Summer on 9th

Summer on 9th South meant tuna sandwiches at the table with Grandma and Grandpa. (They like to call it supper instead of dinner). It meant a new pair of summer shorts fashioned by Grandma from phone call to finished product in 30 minutes, tops. Any fabric in her collection was ours for the taking. The sewing room doubled as a guest room, the door of which was plastered with stickers by Uncle Roger and David; a collection of their high school and college years. Their old bunk beds served as stern and bow for numerous voyages out to sea, Marshall, Libby, Winton and I taking turns at the helm.

Summer meant time with cousins from all across the country; Grettle's van parked under the tree by the patch of strawberries on the east side of the house where snails slid across the cement, hoping for an outing on the grass. It meant slumber parties with Anna and Meka in the spare bedroom upstairs where Mom and Karen used to sleep. They shared everything from late night gossip to jewelry to Mom's Frye boots, even if Karen didn't ask permission. Summer meant time in the garden with Grandpa, pulling up carrots and snacking on sugar peas. It meant Sunday dinners on the deck with the whole family and ice cream cones on the green benches where we liked to dangle our bare feet above the front porch. It meant piggy back rides to the park and under dogs on the swings. It meant popsicles from the big white freezer in the family room full of frozen peaches to top all sorts of delicious desserts.

Summer on 9th South meant tearing old sheets to help Grandma make rag rugs which still cover every kitchen from Boston to the Big Apple to Beach houses in Southern California. It meant fresh sheets out of the dryer in the laundry room with the green walls and the single light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. It meant perfectly made beds, corners tucked and turned down just so by Grandma. Summer on 9th South meant dividing up reunion t-shirts by family, from youngest to oldest, in piles on the family room floor. It meant togetherness, traditions, and the slow hum of the swamp cooler. It meant sewing together strings of buttons and bean bag tosses outside in the side yard. It meant fresh oatmeal raisin cookies for Grandpa, chocolate chip cookies for the grand kids and dough for the tasting.

There are still goodies in the freezer, rag rugs by the back door and fresh sheets on all the beds. I'm now give piggy backs instead of getting them and the walk to the park doesn't seem that far. But summer on 9th South remains the same - Grandma at the loom or on the sewing machine, evenings on the porch with cousins from near and far. We dangle our feet from the benches moving them to and fro and talk of memories, like swings, rocking back and forth inside our minds.

dandelion days

Even now, we say the red brick house is our favorite. It's full of cozy memories, Sunday slide shows and family night in the front room with Grandma and Grandpa. We used to watch John and Amy steal rocks from "The Ladies," next door, a set of sisters who never married. They had an enchanting rose garden, full of rocks as good as chalk for writing on the sidewalk. In the summer on their back patio, they would let us crank their player piano. They sipped iced tea in their house coats and pushed their feet back and forth on the pavement, the gliding vinyl patio furniture swinging to the music.

We played night games until dusk and did fireworks the whole month of July. The park just up the street was perfect for playing "Three Billy Goats Gruff" and Dad made the best Troll. We liked to practice softball on the lawn. The flowering plum tree was home plate, the edge of the sandbox was first, the drinking fountain was second, and the bench was third. Amy and I usually got stuck in the outfield where we'd make clover flower crowns and talk about anything at all until it was our turn to bat.

Maybe it's because life was simpler, because my best friends lived next door, or because the farthest I could run before my Dad could catch me was up the street to the park, but every memory of that house is magical. Even with a Dorothy Hamill wedge haircut, life was perfect.