09.03.09
Mem’ries, may be beautiful and yet, what’s too painful to remember, We simply choose to forget … Alan Bergman and Marilyn Bergman
Reading over my last post again I realized that, as a child, I remember always having had a very big backyard. I also remember my mother’s gardens and landscaping projects, which I will write more about later on. As a responsible adult, I have usually lived in places with very big yards. Or at least, those were the ones that felt like home and that kept me the longest. I have usually put in lovely gardens only to leave them behind when it’s been time to move on. It’s interesting what things shape our lives. My mother has talked, in the past, about her father’s gardening. It was more like farming really. She never really talks about him much. But, as much as she was hurt by who he became later in her childhood, she still has very fond memories of his gardening, and she loves to garden. I never thought I cared much for it when I was a kid, but I thrive on getting my hands in the dirt now. I remember our yards and don’t remember the houses as well. I’ve been actively trying to remember more before it is lost forever.
That house on Elmer Street was a big house inside, but we only had part of the house. The rest of it was locked and full of covered furniture. It was owned by an older woman that I don’t remember ever being around. It was creepy living next to those locked rooms. As most kids, I had a very active imagination and imagined all kinds of possible stories about why they were locked up and what might be in there. Occasionally I would try to peek through the covered windows to catch a glimpse, of what, I don’t even know. I would have given anything to be able to explore that section of the house.
Another interesting thought I’ve had lately is how our memories can be so different from the memories of the other people around at the same time. Not just the thoughts and feelings but real tangible things. I was talking with my parents about that house a few months ago, and they described the house completely differently from what I remembered. I was stunned! How could they be so wrong about the house they lived in for so many years? I really do know that it’s me that is confused, not them. But it is a very curious thing. My memories, at least the few that I have, feel so vivid. I understand remembering emotionally charged things differently, but this is puzzling. We have different perceptions of the actual layout of the house. I was absolutely sure of the layout downstairs, except that I couldn’t picture the stairs to the second floor. I also thought I could see the upstairs in my mind, but it turns out I was wrong. I am going to go ahead and tell this story the way I remember it. If I’m wrong, who will know except my family? You may think you know because I’ve told you, but you weren’t there now, were you?
So … we lived in this creepy house that I was convinced was haunted. I remember starting out in the middle bedroom and having the measles there. I vaguely remember sharing that room with my brother, but I’m not sure of that. Later on, I had the last bedroom. It was in the front of the house and had a different shaped window. I think I remember it as a bay window. But that memory is a little fuzzy. What I do remember very vividly were the ever changing and moving shadows on my bedroom walls from the trees blowing in the wind outside that window and the tapping of the branches against the house. I also remember the door on the side wall that led into the locked part of the house. Sometimes I was terrified that someone was going to come through that door. I would hide underneath the covers, afraid to sneak a look. The New Haven Railroad tracks ran behind Hope Street. Hope Street was a few blocks down the hill and was the main drag in Springdale, a section of Stamford. I could hear the train whistle at night, and I loved it. It was very comforting. Somehow, the sound of that whistle always made me feel safe.
I also remember the back steps and the side porch. The side porch was very long and screened in. It ran along the whole side of the house. I loved to hang out there. That side of the yard was a little mysterious. We rarely played there. I remember it as very shady. Off the kitchen were the back steps with a small landing at the top. The stairs were long and very steep and narrow. There was a huge pale pink, almost white, rosebush growing against the staircase. I guess another of my “escapes,” as a very young child, was climbing over that railing, dropping into the rosebush, climbing back up those stairs and knocking on the backdoor to be let in. That was a long drop. I can always remember being ready for adventure, even now. As a result, I spent a lot of time as a child in the emergency room.
One of my favorite places in the house to hang out in was the basement. My dad made lead soldiers and also had his workshop and tools down there. But the best thing of all was the furnace. We heated the house with a coal furnace, and the coal bin was one of my favorite places ever. I loved the feel of the coal; I loved getting dirty, climbing around in the coal bin; I loved the deliveries of coal; and most of all I loved the furnace. I would watch my dad open up the furnace door, with the raging fire inside, shovel in the coal and close it back up again with a “clang.” It was exciting and terrifying all rolled into one. Plus, it was forbidden.