Memories in the snow blog 5

I can’t seem to remember my first snow, but my most powerful memories of winter are those of sledding with my cousins. My grandparents used to own a horse farm with a lot of woods attached to it. In the woods they had trails for the horses; they had areas planned out for hay fields, and they had a tree field out there for our future. There was a perfect spot out there for sledding by one of the hay fields, if you minded the trees surrounding it. Being slightly reminiscent of “A Christmas Story,” where the little boy has so many layers on that he can’t put his arms down, we would start the hike to the sledding hill. It was about a fifteen minute walk past the horses, the manure, the stalls and the hay barn just to get to this prime sledding location. It was a steep incline but we didn’t have too much trouble getting up it. Once on top of the hill we would try to decide who would slide down first on the sled we brought with us. The only sled we had was an old wooden one with metal runners, which our mothers had used, to share between the five of us. After we took turns sliding down the hill, we would chase each other up the hill, make snow angels, and/or wreak any and all sorts of havoc while the adults couldn’t see. We used to try and walk on the ice of the little creek that ran by the hill, but usually fell in soaking ourselves to the bone. This was our little haven where we would spend hours out of everyone’s hair and we would enjoy the snow that covered the hill. I think that is why we always had so much fun sledding in the woods. We would be away from the adults and not have to worry about getting in trouble. After we were so cold that our fingers started to throb and sting, we would make the long walk back to the house. Once we were back to the house we would enter into the warm little room, off of the kitchen, to start the unthawing process. With our noses, cheeks, and ears beat red from the wind and the cold, we would take off the layers of clothes that tried to keep us warm. Every winter we would do this, not only for the fun but for the bonding as well. These are the best memories I have of winter.

Where Home is... blog 4

The painting, "Ryder's House" by Edward Hopper, has a cold, uninviting feel to it. The house that is painted has no doors that can be seen and no driveway leading up to it. The grass along around the house is long and unkempt, telling me that no one even tries to trim it. It brings to my mind the difference between a house and a home. This building that is depicted is a house because it has not been lived in or loved by anyone. A home is where you can feel at ease, feel welcomed, or feel cared about. To quote an old saying, "Home is where the heart is."
Thinking about the differences between what makes a home and what makes a house has me thinking of my childhood home. It is an old house in a small town. It has been in this small town since the town's been founded. The house has white siding that is trying to fall off and green shutters that are now brown from neglect. Looking from the side street you see the backyard and the garage. Scanning the backyard you can see a huge elm tree that would take three full people to wrap around its trunk. You would also see a big rose bush that will be full of large red roses in the summer. As you continue to look you see a one car garage that is the same color as the house with two large green doors that are man gates. The doors can stand up to anything, even cars running through them; they are fully functional but are ugly as sin. You can see the back door that leads into the kitchen. Everyone that knows my family walks in through the back door never the front door. Going inside you see where my family always seemed to center. When I walk into that room now and breathe in deep, I smell all the old scents and hear all the laughter from the giant family of six that used to dwell there.
Just thinking of my dad’s house makes me very nostalgic. I can only really think of all the Christmas mornings where we sat at the top of the stairs, waiting for mom and dad to wake up, trying to see our presents. I remember having to share a room with my siblings because there just wasn’t quite enough room for us all. I remember the fights my brother and I got into over nothing. I remember chasing the panther of a cat and then being chased by him in return. I remember all of this so clearly and I long for the past and for simpler times. I long for when my parents weren’t separated, when my brother wasn’t over in Japan, and when I could just be carefree. But then I look around me now and I realize that I don’t need those things. I now have a place I call home with MY family, and I am going to start those memories with them.

My House

The beginning of chapter four shows a painting of a house standing alone on a prairie. The house is a cold scene. I believe the house started as one small house and then was added onto, but now is abandon.
My house was similar to the cold feeling. The house was a manufactured ranch style home. It was very plain. My mother only went outside when it was absolutely necessary. There were no flowers or perfect little vegetational arrangements at my house. My house was a boring looking house with white siding and black shutters. The structure was just as boring as the color. A rectangle with a triangle sitting on top of the house.
I recall being jealous of the other houses in my neighborhood. It was an older neighborhood for my little town, but new houses were springing up all the time. Beautiful house built with bricks and high ceilings. My favorite house had a large wrap around porch and gingerbread trim around the top. Why couldn't we live there?
Although we lived in town our house sat on three lots. There were no houses to the left or the right. This made my house look smaller than others in the neighborhood. Some people might like having all that space but, I only saw it as more grass for my brothers to mow and more sticks and walnuts for my sister and I to pick up.
We had a deck on the back of our house, but it was a waste of lumber as far as I was concerned. We had a table on the deck, but no one ever stepped foot on it unless we were sneaking out for the night. I wished my family would have sat and talked or anything on the deck. I felt sorry for it always having to be alone.
The inside of my house was about as inviting as the outside. My mother was boring with the colors of the inside as well. Mauve and country blue was pasted all over the house. The manufacturing company had offered many different colors and designs. I remember how I wanted her to choose something different for every room,but I should have known it would be droll and boring. The front room was the first room you see when you walk in. It was the biggest room in the house. It was kept company by my mother and her second husband. Like the dining room where my siblings and I ate alone, the house had one feature sat up for a reason. The master suite and our bed rooms were on opposite ends of the house.

Seven Again

Have you ever returned to a place that you had only seen as a child? I did this by accident once when my friends and I took a road trip to the University of Illinois as teenagers. We were going to a little novelty art store when I began to have what I thought was the most real sense of deja vu I had ever experienced. The items I purchased then are completely forgotten now, but the voice in my head saying,'I've been here before", is still fresh. We walked back down the art stores steps and ventured out on to what was suppose to be unfamiliar territory. I would have rather joined in with my friends who were talking about a million words a minute, but instead I walked behind them feeling old ghost around me with every step. The afternoon quickly turned to night. We met an entourage of frat boys who were more than generous about sharing their beer and their knowledge of the campus. They took us to an open area of grass centered by a half circle of cement steps submerged in the ground. The air at this place had a strange familiarity. I ignored this feeling and the night progressed on as nights do on a college campus. The sun seemed to rise earlier than usual on this unusual night. That morning our "tour guides", walked us a different route back to our car. Up in the distance I saw the back alley of a small church parking lot. I was seven again. I snapped back to reality knowing exactly where I was at. My father and his wife had lived in the basement apartment of this church. I was quick to break away from the group so I could explore what was one of the most important locations of my childhood. My father had died when I was twelve, but I had not spoke to him since I was nine. I had distant memories of him. I could not remember exactly how he looked or the way his voice sounded, yet I cherished what little I did remember. So many forgotten memories came rushing back. It was difficult to distinguish between what I had imaged and what was real. I walked with childlike eyes around the church taking in all the details. Had this building shrank? It use to be the size of Notre Dame to me. I use to race around it for hours never realizing I was on a college campus. I did not know my father had went to college. I ran to the front of the church to see the sapling we had planted was now a ten year old tree. I remember how exciting it was to dig a hole and plant this little tree. We were suppose to come back and see how it had grown, at least that was the original plan. I just did not realize I would see it by accident or by myself. At this point I was to my knees grasping the grass around me to try to keep stable from the Earth's excelling speed. I looked up and saw the other side of the art store we had been the previous day and realized it was the store my father had worked. I had to know why the grassing area with the steps was also so familiar. I had one of my new friends take me back there. How could I have forgotten? It was all so obvious now. This was the only place on the entire planet I had ever spent time with my father alone. My father was an artist and his paintings were very dark and frightening to my young mind. He had had a very abusive upbringing and continuous battle with a heroine addiction until the day came that it finally won. This pain was evident through the contents of the large painted canvases crammed into the tiny apartment. I recalled one of the paintings to be one of that of a silhouette of a child in a cage, but it was very abstract. It was difficult for me to see what it was until my father explained it to me. Another canvas took up almost the entire living room wall and depicted what I thought was hell on earth. Demons were pillaging and destroying a city, I was petrified of these images. I was suppose to sleep on the couch next to this hellish image, but couldn't I was to afraid. That is when my father took me to the grassy place. My mother never let us stay up late, but there I was running through a sea of grass holding hands with the most mysterious people of my life. My father talked to me about the way he loved the night air and described to me all the scents that it carried that night. He spoke of how we all must overcome fear. I was soaking up his every breath. My mother hardly spoke to my siblings and I at all, let alone explain and talk with us about any subject that did not pertain to herself. Next my father place me on the steps and sketched a drawling of me, in my young opinion the best work he had ever done, but I think he was trying to show me that he could draw things of innocent beauty as well as things of a darker nature. He just didn't have much experience in the happy go lucky department. I wonder what happened to that sketch. I wish I had his paintings, his journals, or the many letters he composed over the years to my siblings and I. It would take away so many mysteries about him, perhaps fill up a little bit of the void I have lived with the majority of my life. After his death my mother refused to let us see or read any of those things. She told us she would keep them for us until we were old enough to understand. Whatever that means. Later in life our mother would tell us the place she put our fathers few things he left for us were destroyed by a flood. A guess a flood would be a proper story since everything about him was washed away. I've never went back to that campus since that day. I will take my children and pray that more memories come back or maybe I can feel close to him again. Until then I am confident in one thing, that day did not happen by chance or by mistake. I was called there.

My First Philosophy Lesson

I have just started my first semester of school. A single mother of three going to college in her thirties is such a cliche, but here I am composing blogs and learning things I never cared to think about before. I choose 'Introduction to Ethics' not knowing what is was and I am still not claiming any kind of expertise on the subject. However, my other choice was psychology. I have been going to a psychiatrist, mental hospitals, and specialist since the age of thirteen. Therefore, I don't find psychology interesting. I figured I would try something I didn't know anything about. My first impression of the class was curiosity about why people would even care about what anyone had to say during the time before Jesus. How could anything a Greek multi-god worshiping person say or write about be relevant to today's' world? The only information I knew about Ancient Greece were from movies. According to Hollywood there was an abundance of half-naked, high testosterone, war-mongering men roaming from land to land pillaging and killing continuously. This what was presented to me by modern age version of the time. The instructor gave us Plato's "Symposium" to read for our first assignment. My attention was immediately captured. I had heard the names Plato and Socrates many times, I had no idea what social, political, and philosophical issues they addressed and the student/teacher relationship that they shared. I also assumed the reason I had heard of Socrates so much was because fabulous literature he had composed for us. I then learned Plato idolized Socrates and then became his voice. I found in my example that brilliance can be passed on without writing it yourself. Socrates is the man with all the answers. He picks about each speaker individually. He let's them know why their speech cannot possibly be true about love. He at times seems condescending of his present company. These were men of privileged society and well educated. Socrates was a man who did not bath on a regular basis, hair a mess, without shoes, wandering around pondering the meaning of everything and anything. The book speaks of times when Socrates is in such deep thought he abruptly stops and stares off into the abyss. The citizens around him accept these strange ways of thinking and then coming to conclusions. Next they wait with great anticipation for him to come back to reality and share with them what he has been pondering. They wait for this incredible conclusion, thirsty for knowledge and learning from this philosopher. Socrates then replies with "I know that I know nothing". What the hell? If a person stands thinking about something so precisely, so in depth for so long, I would a expect something a little deeper. Maybe deeper isn't the word because I do get the meaning of what he said. My expectations for someone that we have studied for centuries would have a little more profound. Socrates had bad hygiene, he spoke in what I like to call circle talk until he convinced his fellow citizens that they were wrong, and then they would agree with him. That's not persuasive, it's people easily giving up their arguments. He lured students in by using false pretenses on the whole homo-erotic student/teacher relationship. Then he would confuse the young boy by not allowing the boy to gratify him sexually and making him feel rejected. He posed as a different character for each person. He then convinced his following that he was the authority on everything and nothing by twisting words, and causing utter confusion. He seems to be a classic case of crazy. This is not unusual for an extremely bright person to be slightly insane. Socrates was not the first, and he will not be the last. Perhaps if wasn't this way to begin with Ethics wouldn't be what it is today. Back to the "Symposium", I found it ironic that Socrates who gave the most important speech of this male dominated drinking party was quoting a women in the majority of his speech. Women at this time were not exactly held in the highest regards. The men were even offended that Alcibiades brought in a female flute player to interrupt their male bonding. Women did not participate in most activities in this age. They were not revered as good enough to be educated as the men were. They were not involved in these "highly sophisticated" drinking parties. Yet, the answer all these men were looking for about love came from a the words of a woman. I hope continue to relate to this course and enjoy thinking outside the box.

my childhood home

There are many things that I remember about my childhood home, but I can’t draw you a picture. The house was a two-story, blue house that was on a side street in Indianapolis. We lived right behind the elementary school that my brothers and I attended; in fact we used to walk to school. The middle school was behind our house also, but at the bottom of the hill. The second story of the house was like a basement and that is where we, the kids, had our rooms. My baby sister and I had our own rooms and my two younger brothers shared a huge room, this room was the size of a family room or something. The upstairs of the house is where the living room, the kitchen and dining area, and my parents’ room. There was also a room that we turned into a playroom.
This house has so many memories and emotions for me. I loved the fact that my brothers and I always had playmates. There were a lot of kids that lived on my street, and near my street. We were always outside playing. We were the only house that had a pool, so there were always kids over at our house. My stepmother babysat a bunch of little kids so we “big” kids would hide outside with the other kids that we played with. I think besides myself there were only two other girls, the rest were all boys. The other girls and I were little tomboys running around. We would play football, go fishing for crawdads, play cops and robbers, and other silly boy-type games. We would spend hours in the pool. My stepmother had to set time limits because we would sleep in the pool if she let us. From the between the time when we woke up and when we went to bed, minus the times we were eating and whatnot, we would stay in the pool. We had a big deck on the first story and the second story of the house. You wouldn’t know this now, but my dad worked in construction as an electrician and was very good with his hands. He built the deck by himself while we kids would try to help, but I think we actually just got in the way.
We had a pretty good sized backyard, especially for living in Indy. The yard was about an acre and I think we used every inch of it. Besides the pool being back there, we also had a big wooden play set thing. It had a slide and the top was like a fort. The bottom of the “fort” had a sandbox. There was a rope for us to climb on, and to hurt ourselves. The top of the “fort” had a yellow tarp to help protect from the weather and sun. There was also a shed in the yard. The shed was used for storage, but there wasn’t much in there. My brothers and I took it upon ourselves to turn it into a clubhouse. I guess we decided that having must of the yard wasn’t good enough. My brothers would move the stuff in the shed to make room for us to move around, and I would clean. Have you ever tried to sweep dirt off of a dirt floor? Let me tell you it is impossible. But still, everyday after school we would be out there. One time, while we were taking a break, we started to dig a hole. Our plan was to get to China. I think we got about a foot or two deep and we ran into really hard clay or something, and we couldn’t dig any further.
I could go on forever about the house that I grew up in. A couple of years ago a tornado went down the street and a bunch of houses were destroyed. The house I lived in was totally missed by the tornado though. The house itself wasn’t that important to me. In fact, I drove by the house a month ago and even though the house still pretty much looks the same, I don’t get the same vibe as I used to when driving down the street. Now all I have are the memories that I keep close to my heart.

3. My Toy Room

I moved into the home I grew up in when I was three years old. I was an only child at the time. My mother remarried and we all moved in together in a three bedroom ranch style home. The third bedroom became a toy room for me. It was filled with dolls, games, a giant chalkboard, stuffed animals, a play kitchen, any toy a little girl could dream of. As I grew older the toys I asked for varied and my toy room looked different year after year. Every summer we had a garage sale. My mother and I would go through all of my toys and sell the ones I had lost interest in.
When I was eight years old my mom and step dad told me I was going to be a big sister the following spring. It was very excited to be a big sister and very hopeful the baby would be a girl. I expected a lot of things would change with a baby in the house but I did not dawn on me that I wouldn’t be able to keep my play room. At first, I was obnoxious about having to sacrifice my toy room. I could not fathom having to cram my favorite toys in a small toy box to keep in my room. There were many toys I was not allowed to keep. The giant chalkboard was one of them, along with the play kitchen. They were just too big to have in my room. My mother and I went through my toys one by one. I surprised myself at how easily it was for me to sort through them, discarding some, and giving many to charity. I have to tell you though the bribe I received made it very easy. My mother told me if I would not throw a fit about not keeping the toys they would get a TV for my room.
I immediately changed my tune about the toys. Almost instantly I was too big for toys. It seemed in the matter of one line spoken from my mother I had grown in years. I was definitely big enough to take care of my own TV. I was going to be a big sister after all. I didn’t need toys now, I would be busy taking care of my younger brother or sister or watching my new TV. My world shrank to those two options as if I would never want to pick up a Barbie Doll again, or my giant chalkboard would not be missed when the neighbor kids came in to play school if it was raining.
When my little brother was born I did stay busy helping and I took pride in being the big sister. I am sure I had my moments at times about not having my toy room, but being the spoiled brat I was I am cure my parents gave me something to keep my mind off of it.