Castles
Sometimes, my sister, C and I share a crazy amount of Marco Polos, texts or letters where we simply talk memories. Memories of the house we grew up in together. One of us will share a memory or two, or three or four and then we are on a roll. We spin and dance around each other.
Remember how Dad used to bring all these dogs home for me? Except the only one I really loved was Sam.
Remember how the closets in that old house went back forever? We'd have clubs back there.
Remember when I got sick and you went trick or treating for me?
Remember when you kissed that boy and got in so much trouble?
I WAS FOURTEEN!
We were CATHOLIC. Grandma said there was "lip contact."
Remember the hollyhocks? We'd make them into dolls.
We were always reading.
The Betsy Tacy Books.
Yeah. And Beany Malone.
We would have friends over but I never really liked it.
I didn't either! They were so LOUD.
And our little house was built for soft voiced girls who loved to read.
And a quiet man.
Dad.
Yeah. And Mom. And us. The four of us girls.
I think that is why I love Little Women.
After he died, we were all so lost. The house was even sad.
It was SO cold ALL THE TIME. Well, it was Winter....
Yeah. It was Winter. But, even the house missed him. Missed us with him. We were such a happy little family.
And then we both fade away, lost in memories, wanting to be alone with our thoughts. But, we always have the house. It isn't OUR house anymore, it has been remade into someone else's house. But, we both still dream about the house. C used to dream about the house a lot when she was raising her daughters.
I would open that middle closet door upstairs and I'd find all these cute outfits for my kids. Probably because we were so young, we couldn't afford fancy clothes.
This stuns me because I STILL have a recurring dream where I climb through the kitchen window facing the back yard and go through a tunnel and find all this cool stuff waiting for me in a big room. My cherry red volkswagon was in that room. My wedding ring. A pair of boots that I wore to every college party where I wanted to look cool.
That house was magic. It still is. But....no. It isn't ours anymore. Except in our heads. Everyone needs a childhood like ours. Most don't get it precisely, but many get a version of it.
We all have our safe havens. That house was mine. It was hers. There was so much laughter in that house. A man who played the guitar for his wife and his daughters. A basement that smelled like the glue that he used to make his miniature cars and airplanes. A toy room that was used to play school and house.
Stairs that wound up and at the very top, first door on your right was C and my room. The two bunkbeds that were taken down and set side by side, so close that we could hold hands during thunderstorms. The books that lay next to our beds to be read each night before bed.
One tiny bathroom that was shared by all six of us. A kitchen where my mother would make cornmeal mush for my Dad on Sunday mornings. It tasted awful and squeaked against your teeth.
The back porch that had the bookcase that now sits in my office. It was stuffed with books. My favorite was The Marvelous Land of Oz by L. Frank Baum. I think I read it at least ten times.
There was also a book where the first line was, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity..." The book was called A Tale of Two Cities. I told my Dad that I wanted to read it once and he laughingly asked me what the word "epoch" meant or "incredulity" when I read it out loud to him. I couldn't say.
Well, then, either prepare to have a dictionary handy when you read it or wait until you are older, he told me.
I ended up finally reading it in college. It wasn't worth the wait to me but I am not sure who the book belonged to.
I am so thankful for that house because it still sustains me. When I wake up in the middle of the night and fear sits too close to me, I go back in time to that castle of ours.
It belongs to us and we belong to it. It comforts me still.
So, thank you, @LeeDeWyze for writing another song to help me through. It is better than any medicine.
Remember how Dad used to bring all these dogs home for me? Except the only one I really loved was Sam.
Remember how the closets in that old house went back forever? We'd have clubs back there.
Remember when I got sick and you went trick or treating for me?
Remember when you kissed that boy and got in so much trouble?
I WAS FOURTEEN!
We were CATHOLIC. Grandma said there was "lip contact."
Remember the hollyhocks? We'd make them into dolls.
We were always reading.
The Betsy Tacy Books.
Yeah. And Beany Malone.
We would have friends over but I never really liked it.
I didn't either! They were so LOUD.
And our little house was built for soft voiced girls who loved to read.
And a quiet man.
Dad.
Yeah. And Mom. And us. The four of us girls.
I think that is why I love Little Women.
After he died, we were all so lost. The house was even sad.
It was SO cold ALL THE TIME. Well, it was Winter....
Yeah. It was Winter. But, even the house missed him. Missed us with him. We were such a happy little family.
And then we both fade away, lost in memories, wanting to be alone with our thoughts. But, we always have the house. It isn't OUR house anymore, it has been remade into someone else's house. But, we both still dream about the house. C used to dream about the house a lot when she was raising her daughters.
I would open that middle closet door upstairs and I'd find all these cute outfits for my kids. Probably because we were so young, we couldn't afford fancy clothes.
This stuns me because I STILL have a recurring dream where I climb through the kitchen window facing the back yard and go through a tunnel and find all this cool stuff waiting for me in a big room. My cherry red volkswagon was in that room. My wedding ring. A pair of boots that I wore to every college party where I wanted to look cool.
That house was magic. It still is. But....no. It isn't ours anymore. Except in our heads. Everyone needs a childhood like ours. Most don't get it precisely, but many get a version of it.
We all have our safe havens. That house was mine. It was hers. There was so much laughter in that house. A man who played the guitar for his wife and his daughters. A basement that smelled like the glue that he used to make his miniature cars and airplanes. A toy room that was used to play school and house.
Stairs that wound up and at the very top, first door on your right was C and my room. The two bunkbeds that were taken down and set side by side, so close that we could hold hands during thunderstorms. The books that lay next to our beds to be read each night before bed.
One tiny bathroom that was shared by all six of us. A kitchen where my mother would make cornmeal mush for my Dad on Sunday mornings. It tasted awful and squeaked against your teeth.
The back porch that had the bookcase that now sits in my office. It was stuffed with books. My favorite was The Marvelous Land of Oz by L. Frank Baum. I think I read it at least ten times.
There was also a book where the first line was, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity..." The book was called A Tale of Two Cities. I told my Dad that I wanted to read it once and he laughingly asked me what the word "epoch" meant or "incredulity" when I read it out loud to him. I couldn't say.
Well, then, either prepare to have a dictionary handy when you read it or wait until you are older, he told me.
I ended up finally reading it in college. It wasn't worth the wait to me but I am not sure who the book belonged to.
I am so thankful for that house because it still sustains me. When I wake up in the middle of the night and fear sits too close to me, I go back in time to that castle of ours.
It belongs to us and we belong to it. It comforts me still.
So, thank you, @LeeDeWyze for writing another song to help me through. It is better than any medicine.
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