Marking Time

(February, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)

***************
AWW: 10/01/2009
non-subject: "marking time"

My sister emailed the 16-page contract to me after she signed all of it. I initialed and signed the papers this past Thursday, then faxed them on their way to my brother.  He autographed them Friday and than dropped the document by the office of the realtor.  We are the seller and we agreed on a price with the buyer.  The closing is set for October 29, 2009.  

I hope all goes smoothly with the details.  Don't I?  Don't I hope we are rid of that empty house?  Yes, of course I do.

I haven't yet been back to the house to tell it bye.  I was last there in March, 2009.

Mom died January 31, 2009.  Marcy and I then continued to clear out 48 years of stuff.  It's one of the hardest jobs I've ever done, cleaning out every last cupboard and drawer and tiny box.  Now some of the contents and furniture sit in my home; a disarray of boxes in my dining room awaiting my hands, the old furniture clumsily placed where it will fit.

I must clean up my own house of stuff so my kids aren't left with my burden of leftovers when I die.  I'll get to it, at some point.  I must keep that promise to myself.

But for the house where I grew up from ages 2 until 17, then intermittently until my early 20's, I must say good-bye.

That house where corporal punishment, of which I have no recollection, was apparently a norm in my early childhood years. That house where I made love to lovers beginning at age 13.  That house where 18-year Shawn used to expose his testicles to 15-year old me. I'd pretend I didn't see or notice when he would come out with a towel wrapped around his lower torso and sit and talk to me with his legs propped in just the right position. At the time I figured he knew my reputation of putting out to guys I was in love with.  Incidents that shouldn't be and were never discussed, like they didn't happen.  But they did.

That house where I lived out part of my unrevealed secret life during my promiscuous early 20s when I'd seduce whoever I desired, fucking and exchanging oral sex, endeavoring to numb myself, proving I was good for at least something, and pretending the encounters were instigated by someone else, not me.

That house where Ryan used to walk around naked, his adult male genitals in full view of my 6-year old eyes,  his naked body that I'd drawn a picture of in first grade and then switched pictures with Susan when she wasn't looking as she sat in the school desk beside me. I knew I shouldn't be drawing pictures of naked men. I got in trouble from the teacher for the picture and the clandestine swap.  To my knowledge the incident was never discussed beyond the classroom reprimand.  The nude one-man strolls continued.  I'd be afraid he might walk through the house in his emperor's clothes when I'd have friends over, but he never did. I'm not sure how old I was when the parades stopped, 10 years old maybe? The naked strolls were never discussed, like they never happened; but they did.

I am the youngest of the three children.  My brother is four years older and my sister is six years older.  I've wondered if the corporal punishment from the past was one reason, after Dad had his accident and was stricken as a quadriplegic, if that is why he wouldn't let my sister physically care for him.  That care fell to Mom and to me, caring for his private parts and dressing him, of which I didn't mind. Marcy lived out of state after Dad's wreck; that probably had a bearing too.  Whenever she'd visit he wouldn't let her help. Maybe it's because I had worked in a nursing home when I was in high school, or because I was  more of a tom-boy in my younger years.  I never went to a prom or entered any beauty pageants, which was fine with me. Though I don't recall the belt licks, I do recall Dad's fierce anger and him hollering "God damn it."  I don't think Dad ever struck me though.

I sometimes wonder if my conception was an accident and I was born by default.

That house where we cared for Dad after his accident, a head-on automobile collision in 1983 when I was 24 years old.  That house where Mom accused us adult children of neglecting her, moaning that we had left her to starve and die of thirst.

That house where, when I was in my 30's, I found Mom lying unconscious on the kitchen floor after she swallowed all the pills trying to put an end to it all.  Another non-discussable subject, like it didn't happen.  But it did.

That house where, as a teenager, I'd come home tripping and become one with the colors from the square-shaped strobe light that sat on the nightstand in my bedroom, Uriah Heep on the headphones, the wood grain in the wall-paneling dancing and morphing to my window pane commands.  That house where, at 15 and 16 years old, I'd stagger down the hallway drunk, balancing my stagger with each hand on the hall walls until I'd stumble into the bathroom where I'd hug the toilet throwing up vodka, moonshine, tequila, or rum. That house where, when Mom and Dad were out of town, I'd have parties when I was 15 and 16; various couples in bedrooms drunk and humping.  That house where I, at 14 and 15, used to sneak out of at night and steal Mom's car and drive to the Community Center to see if my 18-year old lover was around. More unmentionables, like they never happened.  But they did.

That house where, as a little 6-year old buck-toothed curly-headed tom-boy pony-loving girl, I used to line my bed with stuffed animals for protection in case a murderer crawled through the window to shoot me.  I had to protect myself, in case it happened.  But it never did.

How does one relay all the memories?  How can I remember?  I wish I had more memories from my pre-teen years about my family in that house.  I draw such damn blanks from my early childhood; so many blanks.

We moved to that house when I was around 2 years old, in 1961 or thereabouts.  Prior to that Mom and Dad had lived in Daytona for about 15 years; all us children were born in Daytona, in Holly Hill.   That was before Daytona was commercialized like it is now.  I was told ponies ran wild through our yard.  I don't know if that's true; I should ask my sister. In my 30's I discovered that I had been lied to about certain family matters; the ponies may be another lie. Though to Mom I don't think they were lies; I think she believed them.  Shock treatments from the late 1950's and into the 1960's rewired her memory.

That house, in that neighborhood; that neighborhood which is now transformed.  That house is a Hillcrest neighborhood fixture, one of the originals, before the post-50's houses that now line the streets where woods and pastures once thrived.

The woods are gone.  The riding fields are gone.  The trails are gone.  The stables are gone; old man Abernethy's house is gone. The dirt road is gone. It's gone, gone.

My childhood landscape has been bulldozed and bricked.

Except for that house.

********************************************************