My
fifteenth birthday was a day of celebration but not so much over me as it was
over our family’s move from Junction City to Clay Center. Don’t mistake this by
thinking we were excited to be leaving an army town to go to some idyllic place
in the countryside. Actually we kids were horrified to think we were moving to
a town with only one four-way stop light. We were going out to the sticks in
our minds. Still, the move was a celebration.
Probably
this birthday was the first one I had that didn’t feature a cake with candles,
wishes, and the suspense of wondering if I would get all of the candles blown
out in one breath. The night before we family members went to several
neighboring houses to sleep since all our goods had been packed the day before
into a moving van. Tippy, my beagle, stayed in our garage, the cats on the back
porch of the house. We came back for them in the morning. When we were ready to
leave, we kids went to get the three of them for the trip. I put Tippy on the
leash, Lynn got a good hold on Kissy—her Persian ’fraidy cat—and Holly picked
up Mascot—a reprobate tomcat that one rainy afternoon had come home with our
youngest sister. I said I’d get the car door. Tippy insisted on sniffing
something and then we took off in a run around the west side of the house. The
girls and their cats came around the east side of the house just as Tippy and I
burst by. Kissy clawed Lynn in a desperate and successful attempt to escape. We
got Mascot and Tippy into the car and went searching for Kissy who was nowhere
to be found and, if she heard us calling “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” didn’t care. We
had to leave her and go meet the truck some forty miles away.
During the
drive to Clay Center, Tippy hung her head out the open window, Mascot got sick
in his litter, and Lynn cried over the loss of her pet. Finally we got to the
new town and opened the house to receive our furniture, appliances, and
personal effects. I don’t recall a cake or any such celebration, but I do know
I began to move into my room, one with a large closet, plenty of wall space for
my artwork, and a carpeted floor. The junior decorator in me was a bit
over-excited for already Mom had ordered drapes and such, and we were setting
out to re-do the whole house.
Later that
day, after the van had pulled away and things were settling down, I went
outdoors to set up Tippy’s new home in the garage and eventually to assess the
lawn. The new power mower was due to arrive the next day; I wanted to be ready.
Since the big old house sat on three corner lots, I was trying to figure out
how to organize my attack on grass and weeds. I heard a ruckus in the north
yard and went to investigate. There I found Mascot stealthily marking his new
territory and blue jays in great screaming protest attacking him like protective
dive bombers. Such drama!
We were all
moving in and making our best ways into the future. I would have new
responsibilities, a new school, new teachers, new church, and new friends. I
hoped nothing would dive bomb my attempts to make my way. And fortunately I
found a strong music program, many activities with kids at church, and a new
job. Actually it was the same job—carrying out groceries—but in a new store,
this one managed by my uncle who paid me twice as much as my dad had in our
other store. I felt like I was growing out of boyhood in a rapid approach to
adult life, and I felt ready for it all. While the day’s activities were
exhausting and probably there was not a birthday cake, the whole package was a
celebration of life and of a new future for me as I began the sixteenth year of
my life.
© 14 Nov 2016
About the Author
Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
No comments:
Post a Comment