Gusty
I remember walking home from the bus stop in fifth or sixth grade. Walking up Wembley Ridge to the second house on the right. The big Tudor-style house on top of yet another hill I'd have to climb before I could get inside and watch Robotech or hurry up and grab my music before driving downtown to choir practice. I can remember looking out over the neighborhood from that vantage point. Seeing Erin Smullen's house four doors down the hill, my very best friend, who was inexplicably mean to me on a number of occasions. I often thought that her moving away was the best thing that ever happened to me, although it seemed horrific at the time. I can't imagine the psychological abuse we would have meted out to each other over the years had she stayed.
I can remember looking down at Tommy Lackey's house, the big one on the corner that hosted all neighborhood football games, basketball games, games of tags, fist fights and any other manner of warfare kids can come up with. His parents sold Amway and his older sister took him to see Van Halen on their 1984 tour. I can still see the t-shirt, with the little guy and the pointy hat.
I can remember clouds skittering by in the incredibly blue sky, blue that seems to be completely unimaginable these days. Leaves rolled past, down the hill in the gutters, sometimes tumbling into the sewers. We used to crawl around in those sewers until our parents caught us, talking up through the grating to our friends in, you guessed it, Tommy Lackey's yard.
I remember the big empty lot next to Andy Brown's house. Andy Brown who followed me home from the bus stop one day when I flipped him the bird, threatening to tell my mother, walking all the way up to the front door as I begged and pleaded for him to go home. He knew what a goody-goody I was. He knew I couldn't take the risk of exposure. He walked home, laughing. I was never very clear on what his family was like. Or if he even had one. He was the kid who just...was. He showed up for class trips, he had the obligatory Members Only jacket, he had the dirt bike and used it daily on the hills in the lot next to his house. But I never saw his parents.
If it was Friday, David Gallagher's dad would be out, mowing the grass for the last time of the season. He flew home every weekend from whereever he worked, letting David and his mom and...was there a sister? Anyway, they stayed there while he worked. Away. Then he'd come and mow the lawn in his black socks and Bermuda shorts. I had a huge, huge crush on David Gallagher. He used to host pre-set fights in his back yard, because his mom was never home. The spontaneous ones were always at Tommy's.
Scott Humphries's house was just past my street. Blue gingerbread. I'm sure he hated it. Simply because I loved it. It looked like a fairy tale. I remember being in there for some reason, although it couldn't have happened very often. Maybe they bought Camp Fire candy or something from me. He was the blondest of blonds, with freckles. Rarely spoke.
I remember dressing up as a deck of cards for Halloween. That was a great neighborhood for trick-or-treating. Full-sized candy bars at some houses. Avoid the guy that lives next to the folks that own that famous hunting dog--the candy always looks unwrapped. Jason Ewing's mom always had kids come in and bob for apples. She was Martha Stewart, ahead of her time. And don't go to the Korean family over there--they keed dead geese in the garage.
Almost home. The dead ants who baked in the road during the summer are long gone. The roly-polys we'd capture are all burrowed down into the ground for the winter. Pumpkins are on porches. No one smashed them here.
This is the house that I still dream of, still remember. The trellis over the back patio. The bedroom my father wallpapered himself, with the one patch under the window on upside down. The big, big kitchen and the den with wooden floors. The bonus room off my parent's bedroom with the back hallway to the laundry. The smell of new house when we moved in. Sitting and waiting for the movers with Carolyn Johnson when we moved out. We got cable for the first time in the house. And a VCR. We planted blueberry bushes and a river birch, but never got that magnolia the builder promised.
I remember walking home in the fall in Georgia.
I can remember looking down at Tommy Lackey's house, the big one on the corner that hosted all neighborhood football games, basketball games, games of tags, fist fights and any other manner of warfare kids can come up with. His parents sold Amway and his older sister took him to see Van Halen on their 1984 tour. I can still see the t-shirt, with the little guy and the pointy hat.
I can remember clouds skittering by in the incredibly blue sky, blue that seems to be completely unimaginable these days. Leaves rolled past, down the hill in the gutters, sometimes tumbling into the sewers. We used to crawl around in those sewers until our parents caught us, talking up through the grating to our friends in, you guessed it, Tommy Lackey's yard.
I remember the big empty lot next to Andy Brown's house. Andy Brown who followed me home from the bus stop one day when I flipped him the bird, threatening to tell my mother, walking all the way up to the front door as I begged and pleaded for him to go home. He knew what a goody-goody I was. He knew I couldn't take the risk of exposure. He walked home, laughing. I was never very clear on what his family was like. Or if he even had one. He was the kid who just...was. He showed up for class trips, he had the obligatory Members Only jacket, he had the dirt bike and used it daily on the hills in the lot next to his house. But I never saw his parents.
If it was Friday, David Gallagher's dad would be out, mowing the grass for the last time of the season. He flew home every weekend from whereever he worked, letting David and his mom and...was there a sister? Anyway, they stayed there while he worked. Away. Then he'd come and mow the lawn in his black socks and Bermuda shorts. I had a huge, huge crush on David Gallagher. He used to host pre-set fights in his back yard, because his mom was never home. The spontaneous ones were always at Tommy's.
Scott Humphries's house was just past my street. Blue gingerbread. I'm sure he hated it. Simply because I loved it. It looked like a fairy tale. I remember being in there for some reason, although it couldn't have happened very often. Maybe they bought Camp Fire candy or something from me. He was the blondest of blonds, with freckles. Rarely spoke.
I remember dressing up as a deck of cards for Halloween. That was a great neighborhood for trick-or-treating. Full-sized candy bars at some houses. Avoid the guy that lives next to the folks that own that famous hunting dog--the candy always looks unwrapped. Jason Ewing's mom always had kids come in and bob for apples. She was Martha Stewart, ahead of her time. And don't go to the Korean family over there--they keed dead geese in the garage.
Almost home. The dead ants who baked in the road during the summer are long gone. The roly-polys we'd capture are all burrowed down into the ground for the winter. Pumpkins are on porches. No one smashed them here.
This is the house that I still dream of, still remember. The trellis over the back patio. The bedroom my father wallpapered himself, with the one patch under the window on upside down. The big, big kitchen and the den with wooden floors. The bonus room off my parent's bedroom with the back hallway to the laundry. The smell of new house when we moved in. Sitting and waiting for the movers with Carolyn Johnson when we moved out. We got cable for the first time in the house. And a VCR. We planted blueberry bushes and a river birch, but never got that magnolia the builder promised.
I remember walking home in the fall in Georgia.
posted by Miss Head at
9:28 AM
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