Bottle Rockets
My family is from Ohio. Two places in Ohio. My mom grew up near the city. The actual city, Cleveland. Not the one in the middle or the one in Kentucky. We visited my grandparents there fairly regularly, over the years. I knew their house and was fairly comfortable there. From the Jacques Cousteau books in my uncle's room to the seafoam green bathroom with the etched glass shower doors. I knew where the cereal was kept, where Uncle Robert left the candy corn and how to hide in the attic.
My father was from elsewhere. Not too far, about an hour and a half. On the outskirts of a steel town near Pennsylvania. A mafia town. A football town. A river wound through his neighborhood and you could walk to both the high school and the Dairy Queen within five minutes.
His family was all from that area. His grandparents owned a big old house...the type of house Neil Simon movies in the 40's take place. They lived there and raised their children there. And one of their children raised her children there. Aunt Marg.
Marg and Joe lived in that house for a long, long time. We'd go visit on occasion, mentally preparing ourselves to sit in the tiniest kitchen imaginable. Getting ready for the inevitable political arguments between my red-headed second cousin and, well, pretty much everyone else. Looking forward to really good food, excellent turkey on Thanksgiving, wonderful mashed potatoes and the ever-popular cranberry chutney, before chutney was fashionable.
I can remember the time we were all there, most of the cousins. I think I may have been the only grandchild on scene. Marg took us to the basement and showed us the markings on the rafters. Whenever they had family gatherings, everyone would go to the basement and sign their names in a new spot, marking the date as a special occasion. I think we signed our names that day. I think that was the only day I did.
I can't help but think of that home in eastern Ohio as the family home, the place where people gathered. There were many summer nights spent in the backyard, picking roses from the arbor, running around and capturing fireflies.
There was a July 4th that we spent there, although I cannot remember the year. I was young enough to think that running through the neighborhood in the dark was great fun, and old enough to be out in the dark alone. But you could do that then, run in the dark in a small town alone. Do people do that anymore? I was probably twelve or thirteen.
People in that small town all had their own fireworks, bought during weekend trips to Indiana, and shot them off throughout the night. I can still see the bottlerockets shooting off between the trees into the sky. The lights were flickering through the leaves of the trees, huge and overhanging the yards of the houses. I remember thinking that the light cast by the falling fireworks must have been what it was like in the war, in Vietnam, when flares would come down from the sky, red and white and shimmering. I remember wondering how something so beautiful could be so frightening at the same time.
The house was sold after my aunt and uncle moved to New York to be with their grandchildren. They both died. We have no ties to that town now, other than my memories of holidays, spent on porches and in kitchens and on couches, watching football.
But when I watch the fireworks this year, for the 4th, I will imagine myself back there, running through backyards, jumping through hedges, dodging friends in neverending games of tag. And watching bottle rockets fade into darkness in eastern Ohio.
My father was from elsewhere. Not too far, about an hour and a half. On the outskirts of a steel town near Pennsylvania. A mafia town. A football town. A river wound through his neighborhood and you could walk to both the high school and the Dairy Queen within five minutes.
His family was all from that area. His grandparents owned a big old house...the type of house Neil Simon movies in the 40's take place. They lived there and raised their children there. And one of their children raised her children there. Aunt Marg.
Marg and Joe lived in that house for a long, long time. We'd go visit on occasion, mentally preparing ourselves to sit in the tiniest kitchen imaginable. Getting ready for the inevitable political arguments between my red-headed second cousin and, well, pretty much everyone else. Looking forward to really good food, excellent turkey on Thanksgiving, wonderful mashed potatoes and the ever-popular cranberry chutney, before chutney was fashionable.
I can remember the time we were all there, most of the cousins. I think I may have been the only grandchild on scene. Marg took us to the basement and showed us the markings on the rafters. Whenever they had family gatherings, everyone would go to the basement and sign their names in a new spot, marking the date as a special occasion. I think we signed our names that day. I think that was the only day I did.
I can't help but think of that home in eastern Ohio as the family home, the place where people gathered. There were many summer nights spent in the backyard, picking roses from the arbor, running around and capturing fireflies.
There was a July 4th that we spent there, although I cannot remember the year. I was young enough to think that running through the neighborhood in the dark was great fun, and old enough to be out in the dark alone. But you could do that then, run in the dark in a small town alone. Do people do that anymore? I was probably twelve or thirteen.
People in that small town all had their own fireworks, bought during weekend trips to Indiana, and shot them off throughout the night. I can still see the bottlerockets shooting off between the trees into the sky. The lights were flickering through the leaves of the trees, huge and overhanging the yards of the houses. I remember thinking that the light cast by the falling fireworks must have been what it was like in the war, in Vietnam, when flares would come down from the sky, red and white and shimmering. I remember wondering how something so beautiful could be so frightening at the same time.
The house was sold after my aunt and uncle moved to New York to be with their grandchildren. They both died. We have no ties to that town now, other than my memories of holidays, spent on porches and in kitchens and on couches, watching football.
But when I watch the fireworks this year, for the 4th, I will imagine myself back there, running through backyards, jumping through hedges, dodging friends in neverending games of tag. And watching bottle rockets fade into darkness in eastern Ohio.
posted by Miss Head at
9:50 AM
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