The
wind blew straight down from the Yukon chilling the plains of eastern Colorado
and the town of Whitney. Don walked past
the sere, brown grass on either side, toward the 1920's bungalow. After crossing the porch, he opened the screen
door and unlocked the front door. The
living room was so empty that it looked as though a family had not lived there
for twenty-six years. Back when he was
five, the Folks had bought the house and moved into its more spacious
quarters. Only vaguely could he remember
running through the empty rooms which seemed so vast before Dad, helped by
Uncles Sam, Bill, and Bob, had arrived with the family’s possessions.
The
house needed a good cleaning–especially the windows. Thank God, for the Mary and Martha
Society. They were ladies from the
Baptist Church. With the motto, “We make
bad times a little better”. Part of
their Christian duty. Actually they had
organized the auction for the all the stuff that he and the girls had not
wanted. Tomorrow the ladies would come
to give the house a good cleaning. Have
to send them a really nice check for all their help.
Looking
around the empty room he remembered it crowded with people and furniture. Dad’s and Mom’s lounge chairs had sat side by
side on the other side of the fireplace facing the TV against the front wall. The Christmas tree had always stood before
the front widows so that they could share its glory with passers-by. Eleanor had wanted the print of Canaletto’s
GRAND CANAL. Wonder how it would look
decorating a wall in Silicon Valley?
Looking
back, the dining room was a waste of space considering how seldom they had used
it along with the “good” dishes. On
Holidays, birthdays, and Sundays and from time to time. Never would forget the Thanksgiving that an
errant football, thrown by his cousin Percy, had blasted the window to
smithereens about an hour before the meal.
Couldn’t have bought a piece of glass in Denver on Thanksgiving. No problem for Dad and the uncles. They covered the empty sash with a piece of
plywood chinked with an old blanket. All
done and over by the time the turkey was taken from the oven.
The
folks’ room never really interested him what with Mom having a strict policy of
knocking before opening a closed door.
Besides he had checked it out and found nothing interesting except some
photograph albums inherited from his grandparents which he studied from
time. People, long dead, posed before
antique cars.
His
sisters shared a room which he later found more interesting. Nothing really dirty just an interest in how
girls were different from boys. Had to
do his snooping when alone at home.
His
room seemed so small. He wondered how a
chest of drawers, a desk and chair, and a set of bunk beds could crammed into
such a small space. Here he had had high
dreams, found solace from psychic stings, and read about the rest of the world
outside of Winston and Kiowa County.
The
kitchen was the center of the family’s life and certainly Mom’s life. She spent most of her time cooking for
us. We ate practically all of our meals
over there at the table in the corner.
Some kind of meat, potatoes, at least one vegetable, a salad, and some
sort of desert. Mom liked to try recipes
from the women’s magazines. Women don’t
cook like that any more –don’t have the time.
He left the house keys on the mantel for Bill Roberts, the real estate agent.
Suddenly
he realized that after the house was sold he’d have no ties to Winston except
Longview Cemetery. They still owned
three burial plots of the five that the Folks had bought years ago. Maybe they could be sold.
He
realized it would be two o’clock before he got to Denver. Before getting into his car, he stood
buffeted by the High Plains wind, studied the house once more ,and then drove
off without looking back.
About the Author
Although I have done other things, my
fame now rests upon the durability of my partnership with Carl Shepherd; we
have been together for forty-two years and nine months as of today, August
18the, 2012.
Although I was born in Macon, Georgia
in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression. No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused
by that era. No matter we survived. I am talking about my sister, brother, and I. There are two things that set me apart from
people. From about the third grade I was
a voracious reader of books on almost any subject. Had I concentrated, I would have been an
authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After the University of Alabama and
the Air Force, I came to Denver. Here I
met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar.
Through our early life we traveled extensively in the mountain
West. Carl is from Helena, Montana, and
is a Blackfoot Indian. Our being from
nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening
experience. We went so many times that
we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in
Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming. Now those happy travels are only memories.
I was amongst the first members of the
memoire writing class. While it doesn’t
offer criticism, it does offer feedback.
Also just trying to improve your writing helps no end.
Carl is now in a nursing home, I don’t
drive any more. We totter on.
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