As with Mom’s meal, it was masterfully done and completely underappreciated.
We were about halfway through hand-washing the china when Dad came back through, headed to the garage to collect additional adult beverages. Amy and Rick followed him, asking if they could go outside. Mom agreed from the sink before Dad could answer and reminded the pair to properly jacket themselves against the cool November air.
“I bet it is nice outside …” I said wistfully, as the back door slammed behind them.
“Well,” Bee pointed out, “I would imagine that it is much warmer here than it is in Ohio right now.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “it definitely is.” I wished I could have explained how passionate I was about this topic, the weather, and how after growing up here (in this house) that I found winter in the Midwest nothing short of tragic.
“You should go outside and enjoy it, you’ll have to go back to the cold soon enough,” Mom said. Even though I think she genuinely meant that, she was also trying to get someone, anyone out of her space. If she could have pulled it off, everyone would have been banished from the kitchen, never to return. I suppose, and I had never thought about this before, that she preferred doing all the work herself as opposed to sharing it with people who made her feel self-conscious.
I tried to argue that I needed to help with the dishes, to do my part as it were, but all three women urged me on, back through the breakfast room and out the back door onto the driveway.
I agreed to go and it was easy.
All I felt was relief.
Stepping outside, I looked around and soaked in the quiet. The beauty of dusk and the sweet smell of Texas comforted and haunted me all at the same time, not unlike what had been, up until today, only memories of my childhood.
Now that I was alone I could slowly walk around, absorbing each bit of what before I had only viewed as a place to play, and then a place to park my first car (and crash into my sister’s second car), and then the place I left when I went away to college, and then the place I totally forgot about.
The enormous concrete pad could have easily held four full-sized vehicles. Again, everything seemed shrunken down, but still, it was tantalizing. Attempting to take it all in was impossible. The overwhelming urge was to photograph it, to somehow make it, this time, something I could take with me. But could a picture really do that? Could a well-filtered, completely edited, hash-tagged and promptly shared image recreate an actual moment in time?
Just then, what looked like a shadow came around the sharp corner on the left side of the garage, where the long driveway stretched out into the street. It startled me. Backing away slowly, I saw a medium-sized dog, my childhood dog, running toward me, wagging his tail in excitement.
Oh my God, it was Cecil.
How in the world had I forgotten to go out and look for Cecil? It was the first thing I should have done when I got to 1978, but as usual, my most faithful companion was the one I thought of last. It was official, I sucked.
Leaning down, I petted the tan-and-white, short-haired mutt, “Hi boy, how are you?” Dropping to my knees, I felt tears streaming down my face, he was so small. “It’s good to see you, boy—I’ve missed you so much.”
Rubbing the familiar brown spot on his head, I couldn’t help but tell him everything. “I’ve come back in time, boy, I’m a real woman now, I have hair on my private parts and everything … It’s me, Amy, I’m all grown up.” Cecil just wagged faithfully, with the same open-mouthed look that had always mimicked an actual smile. “You ought to meet my boys, Will and Matthew, they’d love you, boy. I told them all about you … they’re such good boys, you’d be so proud of both of them … Mom and Dad, they said some stuff at the table, about me, about little me, I don’t know what to think about it. I don’t know why I’m here and if this is really happening. I’m not brave enough, boy, or strong enough to do this.” Crap, I was telling the dog everything I wanted to say to the people in the house, the actual people.
“I was so sad when we had to put you to sleep, I was playing soccer and I just stood on the side of the field and cried, I couldn’t stop. When we buried you down by the rope swing, we put a white-wire fence around your grave. Other than Paw Paw’s funeral, it’s the only time I’ve ever seen Dad cry. We all loved you so much, boy … we all love you so much right now.” Really, I shouldn’t have told him about his impending death. I didn’t know what year it had happened, but it wouldn’t be long in relative terms. For all I knew, he could understand everything I was saying. For all I knew, the only thing he couldn’t do was talk back.
If there was one thing I had already learned from this experience, it was that I didn’t know what was really going on … reality was crap. And that meant dogs might be able to understand human words.
“I’ve got another dog now, back at home, back in my real life,” I continued, scratching his back. “His name is Sammy and he’s almost as good as you, boy, but not quite.” Cecil put his legs up on my knees as I continued to talk. He was the only one in 1978 who had figured out who I really was. Only the best dogs do that, you know, those once-in-a-lifetime dogs. They have an extraordinary sense of smell and they can be counted on to remember their people, even as they struggle with hallucinations and supposed time travel.
Tracing my steps back around the garage and down the driveway with Cecil following behind me, I could hear the kids playing in the street. The sun had set just enough to provide an almost heavenly glow, seemingly on cue to fit my nostalgic mood. Making my way silently down the drive, I strained to see what was going on—ah yes, it was the annual “after Thanksgiving dinner” football game.
Directly in front of our house was the intersection of two classic ’70s suburban streets, Creekview Drive and Morningcrest Court. The two joined to form a giant T which the local band of kids—bonded by nothing more than geographical location— used for a wide variety of purposes, mostly sport related.
We were a similar-aged but male-dominated group, meaning athletic pursuits were on the schedule on most school afternoons and many a long, boring, hot summer day. Football, baseball and basketball were the regular games, but moments of genius, or desperation, drove us to get creative—like the time we made our own hockey sticks and created our own version of street hockey, sans any skates. It was a pursuit that inevitably ended poorly, especially given that we had never even watched a hockey game on TV. Seriously, this was the pre-NHL South. The best I can remember, it was a game that never really took off with us, mainly because some kid always ended up running home, bawling, because he/she had been wacked, unmercifully, by another kid with his/her homemade stick. Even though the aggressor always pleaded it was “an accident,” it may have been a bridge too far to put wooden weapons in the hands of an over-competitive group of pre-teens on what was, really, a boring suburban street in the ’70s.
Lucky for me, I was a tomboy who found sports more appealing than latch-hook rug or Shrinky Dink making. The other two young ladies on our block were my sister Kim and our caddy-corner neighbor Lynn, who participated in the sporting events until they grew out of it, much earlier than I did.
I can still recall the exact layout of our football field. When we were younger, we played in a large grass area that flanked Todd’s house, situated directly across from us and to the left. But eventually, as we grew bigger and faster we moved the game into the actual street. Whoever had done construction in the area had left large drips of rocky concrete on the street surface, which served as landmarks for our games. We had it all down to a science. This shrub was home plate, that concrete dribble was first base, the end zone started with this crack in the street, and out of bounds was a complicated combination of curbage. These flimsy boundaries provided the gray area necessary to keep things interesting.
On this night, there was a relatively large group assembled, maybe four or five per side. The weather, by local standards, was cool and crisp. Growing up in Houston and loving street sports means that only rarely will y
ou feel the sting of a cold football in your hands.
I recognized almost all of the athletes immediately: First, there was perennial team captain and the street’s biggest and best athlete Greg (who I secretly thought was hot), the other Greg from further down the street (who my sister not so secretly thought was hot), Nick, Sean, Todd and then some guys from nearby streets. Rick and Little Amy were right in the middle of the activity. Kim and Lynn were pursuing other interests, indoors.
I had always wondered what Rick thought about me being one of the street “guys” for sporting endeavors. I guess it goes back to just being happy to have someone to play with. Who cares if your sister is really a girl?
I got as close to the game as I could, edging my way across the street to the stop sign in the corner of Todd’s yard. Leaning back against the pole, trying to look casual, I was glad that at least Rick and Little Amy knew who I was, making me less of a candidate for the stranger-danger label. The game was well underway by the time I, the lone spectator, arrived. As far as I knew, I was the first-ever actual spectator, but, of course, that was before I knew that moms (and other nosey neighbor types) spent a great deal of time looking out the window. Ah yes, the crawling pace of suburban life made careful monitoring of the “goings on” of the neighborhood a well-played sport all its own. The lack of cable television, the internet, texting and free long distance would have made this even more pronounced. In 1978, I would imagine everyone quietly knew everyone else’s business. I could totally get into that.
As the sun continued to slowly set, I knew the game would inevitably end soon, as natural light—and two dim streetlights we always threw stuff at—were the only illumination available. From the yelling, huffing, and puffing on the part of the red-faced participants, I deducted that the sporty Greg’s squad (which included Rick and the young skinny Amy) were down by less than a touchdown to the Todd squad. As “our” group got possession of the football back from the opposing side, it was decided that this was the final drive of the game.
Sudden death.
The Greg team tried two plays that resulted in an incomplete pass and then Rick being hurled off the street on a running play for a gain of probably two yards. Two plays left to go for all the marbles. It was third down and I moved in closer.
The ball was “self-hiked” minus a center, and Greg went back to throw a bomb into the end zone nearest me. A kid I didn’t recognize laid out Lynn Swann style but just missed it, the ball passing tantalizingly out of reach and onto the hood of a nearby car. As it bounced off what looked to be a white Camaro, I thought how pissed I would have been if it were my car. Really, what were these kids thinking?
Fourth down. Another “hut-hut” off the line of scrimmage and Greg was again looking downfield for an open receiver. Todd counted the obligatory six Mississippi and came after him.
He wasn’t as big as Greg and was a full year younger but was quick and aggressive. Greg was forced to hurl the ball or be taken out, resulting in a short, desperate pass to the young and eager Amy, who was being loosely covered by a kid that I had just recognized. It was Brice, who lived near my cousins’ house across the neighborhood on Fawnwood. He was tall, fast, and he knew it.
Miraculously, Amy snagged the ball at midfield, and as Brice turned to catch her she made an impressive juke and began to shoot down the field. Brice was fast, but Amy pulled her butt in and just took off … Holy crap, she was like a bullet out of a gun! She could play for Clemson! Luckily, I caught the look on her face when she sped past me and let me tell you, no sporting enthusiast wouldn’t have been impressed with the determination in her eyes. She was a total badass. Now, this didn’t make up for the fact that this was still the same little bowl-snipped-haired girl who brought awkwardness to an entirely new level, but she really did have some skills.
“GO AMY!” I heard the winded Rick yell from behind as she tucked that impressively petite rear in one more time, crossing into the end zone just beyond the lanky reach of Brice.
Hyper girl scores! Team Greg wins! Thanksgiving is saved!
Rick followed Amy into the end zone patting her on the back, all smiles. The defeated stood with hands on their hips, disappointed that they had been schooled by the tomboy. Greg just smiled casually, as the big man on the street he was too used to winning to make a big deal out of it.
It was all lost on the fresh-faced Amy, who didn’t seem to care that she was a girl playing a boy’s game or that she was a big dork. She had just outrun Brice for the winning score. The girl who would love football for a lifetime just had her actual on-field moment. I was glad she didn’t see it for anything more than what it was, a great moment in sports.
Thank God she wasn’t a hung-up, care what other people thought, uptight forty-something-year-old from the future.
Walking back toward “my” house enveloped by a hazy Houston dusk, I clapped my hands, pumped my fist, thoroughly satisfied with the little freak’s performance.
This was who we were. Ass kickers. I could dig that. Totally.
Chapter Twelve
THE STREAKER
By the time I came back inside, the adults were settled into the family room, comfortably perched on the rattan, spread out lazily on the couch, and in the case of my father, laid out in his usual place on the area rug, leaning against the hearth.
He had lain in that same position on what seemed like every night we lived in that house, propped up on a pillow, wearing a sky-blue jumpsuit, with a beer in his hand. Often times, we three kids would get our own pillows and lay our heads against him, lined up in a row, facing the TV. From there we watched all the classics: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Tony Orlando and Dawn, The Flip Wilson Show, The Ten Commandments and the Peanuts specials brought to you by Dolly Madison.
It made me hungry for a Zinger.
Rick and Amy—still red-faced—returned behind me, eager to have their pies dolloped with a helping of bastardized Cool Whip. I didn’t know it yet, but as an adult, Thanksgiving pie was best served when you were slowly being pickled by the Chablis or Schlitz Malt Liquor Bull. Inasmuch as the kids saw the glow of Thanksgiving in the morning hours, only to be disappointed by the reality that was inevitably reached by sundown, adults dreaded the hours that would drag on, only to feel the glow, finally, in the night air.
And so pie was served.
“Pee Diddle Umpkin,” Frank recited with a pie plate in his thick hand, “Pee Diddle I … Pee Diddle Umpkin … Pumpkin Pie.”
The TV buzzed and flicked as we watched Mork & Mindy, a horizontal line creeping up and down the screen, distorting the picture as it went. Though the show itself was almost criminally dated, Robin Williams was crazy good as were the commercials, which thankfully nobody flicked away from—because apparently, we were working without a remote control.
The common thread of the commercials was singing. Almost every ad had what sounded like a large throng of B-rate Broadway performers, belting out their cheesy lyrics with such gusto that I was afraid they might crash through the D-rate television screen. It reminded me a lot of that “Up with People” nonsense.
My favorite was a commercial for Camay soap. It featured the shadow of a man with a sexy voice, wearing a robe. He was attempting, apparently, to get a half-naked, blindfolded woman to smell a bar of soap—Camay wildflower—that had been inserted into a perfume bottle. Once she figures out what it is, the blindfold is removed and his hands, covered with soap, begin to lather her face. She enjoys the caressing, telling him, seductively, “Mmmm, that feels nice …” followed by, “Oh! Now I really smell the wildflowers.” With that, his head finally gets into the frame and yes, he’s good-looking, with reddish-blond hair and a matching mustache. He leans in close to her, temptingly, and replies, “To me it just smells wild.”
It ended with the bar of Camay back in the perfume bottle, surrounded by fluorescent-colored carnations and daisies, like the kind of bouquet you’d see in front of a Stop and Go. It was difficult not to imagine the two people,
now somewhere off set, wildly having soapy sex, shielded only by the huge bushel of baby’s breath.
Pulling my handy notebook back out, I jotted down, “When was Up with People? Brice: did he play college sports? YouTube: Camay Wildflowers,” and, of course, “Have someone spread soap on my face while I’m naked.”
Granny and Granddaddy, who had to drive back into Houston proper, were the first to go. All rose to say goodbye, the children still more enthusiastic than the adults.
What would they discuss on the way home? Surely the bulk of the meal would have been well thought of, but then the customary post-holiday discussion of who said what and “I can’t believe it” would have ensued.
In the driveway, I shook each of their hands. I wondered if this, again, would be the last time I saw Granny and Granddaddy alive.
Probably.
They felt no closeness to me, and therefore no warm hug parted us, no lonesome embrace marked the end of our brief meeting in time. A profound sadness haunted me, knowing that to them, I was just another “in law” who showed up randomly one year at their daughters’ home. Yes, they could be difficult, even mean, but they were my people. They had loved me, been the people that grandparenthood makes you, and they were mine. Though I could have skipped the entire dining room scene, completely, it made me understand that they were nothing more than flawed people. Just like me.
This was a blow to my naïve memory, but it was somewhat comforting to a forty-something-year-old who had realized that perfection was an unrealistic and unhealthy aim, even for herself. Plus, they had shielded “us,” at least the younger versions, from the inevitable undercurrents. As much as it was arguably beneficial, I understood it was ultimately love that drove them to it. And, even better, Granny was a writer, our pens surely flowed together, but still I couldn’t help but hope that it was our only connection. If only we could pick the part of the DNA that each ancestor leaves us, it would make it much easier and cut down on blaming other people for our own faults.
You Cannot Mess This Up Page 11
