Crunchy Thoughts

*[Ed. note: written for my aunt's requested Christmas Theme: a memory that occurred in their house, meaning the one my great grandparents and grandparents lived in -- the one they now inhabit.]

___________________________________

I have been ransacking the 8mm reel films of memories in my head, trying to come up with the best memory, the PERFECT one, that encompasses all that I have experienced at the house on Main Street. It’s a tough order despite all the memories I have created there. I don’t know if I can go with just one. Some of those memories have entered into the lexicon of my and my sister’s pseudospeak that seems to amuse our husbands: “Remember when we lost Lofty in the lamp?” “Cat muscles!” “Clip-clops.”

Some of these memories are only vague recollections. The video skips and there is little or no sound, so I make it up as I go along with the retelling. Others are crystal clear as if they were recorded with a newfangled HD video camera. In other words, don’t get your panties in a twist if I don’t have it just right — contents settle during shipping.

When my sister and I were young we came over to Ganny and Papa’s every Sunday afternoon for lunch. It was a highlight of the weekend for us to strip out of our Sunday best and dine on Ganny’s wonderful cooking while wearing our pinafores. Not only is ‘pinafore’ a great word to say — pinafore, pinafore, pinafore — they were fun to twirl around in, even if just for that limited amount of time. Cathy and I pretended we were wearing ball gowns and were attending a very important gala. We didn’t realize it at the time, but Mom most likely viewed this risque luncheon as a few less unwashable stains she had to deal with that evening.

Later in the afternoon we would sometimes get some ice cream in pink and blue Gerber bowls. Cathy and I then settled into playing Ice Cream Factory and we stirred and stirred our ice cream until it was like frosting, pretending we were whipping up a grand batch of ice cream for the kids. Then, being the ‘kids,’ we’d eat it.

One afternoon Ganny had been stuck on the phone for a while with a neighbor. I imagine she must have been rolling her eyes at my mother because pretty soon my mom got me to holler from the living room, “Ganny, can you help me with something?” I remember being a bit confused about this for a second because I really didn’t need any help with anything but Ganny quickly said into the phone, “Well, gotta go!” and hung up.

Living just a 30 minute drive away from Columbiana, sleepovers were rare, but they did sometimes happen. The feel of the house first thing in the morning was so different from a Sunday afternoon. When I got up the dawn would barely be shimming in through the windows; it felt a little cool after climbing out of the covers. Ganny and Papa would be up and in the kitchen. Ganny would fix me a wonderful cup of coffee in the green-banded pyrex cup with copious amounts of Pet milk and sugar from the mushroom bowl. As the dawn broke, blue light would begin to pour into the house. I imagine this is what the house felt like for my mother every morning when she was little.

A lot of the memories can get muddled in my head between what is real and what is something I read in a book. Whenever I dive into a novel, I tend to place the main characters into the House on Main. This house is just the best I know. It has a quintessential American house look to it, both inside and out. Plus, it has always had a home-like feel for me which I pass on to the characters I read about. In Harry Potter, the Weasley family live in this house in my mind — I just had to build on a few oddly-placed stories and lean-tos to follow the setting.

The 8mm reel of memories still spins in my head. I watch them frequently in my mind; sometimes randomly while driving to work or brushing my teeth and I will smile or even bust out laughing. This is sometimes a work hazard. But, also like video film, I keep finding degraded clips of scenes that I know I used to have. I wish I had an easier way than writing to get them all preserved because — you know what? — this ain’t easy.

Steven’s grandfather: “Come on over here, Lydia, and sit in my lap so we can take a nap together.”

Steven’s grandmother: “Where is your lap?!”

I really never thought that this would be a problem, or at least one that would irritate me. As a girl, I was raised to believe that girls are TOTALLY AWESOME and can do as much, if not more than, boys. Back then I thought it was great that while us girls could wear both pajamas or nightgowns, boys could only wear pajamas. Ha.

I still think us girls are quite kickass and I certainly know there are many perks to belonging to the gender. I just don’t think I should have to give up my respect or the desire for others to take me seriously just to have a guy hold the door open for me.

So I’m a woman — that puts me with 50% of the population. Amazing. Why is it so odd if I want to shove on some boots and get in the mud? I can see the wheels turning. Why is she driving that truck? Why isn’t she a guy? Why does he have boobs?

I hinder myself as much as anybody, though. Steven says, as only a husband can, “your problem is you’re too nice.” Nice. Curl your upper lip up and squinch your nose when you say it and you’ll see why I need to dial down the nice. Nice asks for people to walk all over you.

But what am I to do when I’m driving down the road and some large truck begins pacing me in the next lane? I refrain from looking over for a while because, hey, no need to be rude. Maybe he just needs the office number off of my work truck.

When I finally sneak a peek — curiosity getting the better of me — I see the driver doing this cutsie open-and-closed hand wave at me.

Geez, what the hell am I supposed to make of that? I don’t KNOW this dude, and I certainly don’t WANT to know him. Is he being a smartass? Is he flirting? He wouldn’t freaking do this crap if I were a guy; I know that much.

When I finally turn left and he speeds ahead, he is still waving at me from his side mirror.

I just hate crap like that because now all I have is second-guesses and assumptions as to what this goofball was intending. I don’t want to get so jaded that I immediately pull out the Gender Card — it’s best if that card does not get worn and faded before its time — but what else can I think? It’s certainly not an isolated event. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been honked at by large trucks . . . but why honk at all?

Why can’t I drive down the road in peace? Why can’t I ask the rental sales guy about a piece of equipment without him getting unnecessarily technical just to see if he can talk over my head? Why am I “that little landscaping girl” at almost 30 years of age?

I have got to make myself heard over my petite stature.

This year I made a change in my present-wrapping material to derail Renton’s nutty habits. Tecnically, you could say it worked — he hasn’t been caught munching under the tree once.

The problem, again, is Hermione. She seems to have a taste for raffia. Once again I am faced with presenting gifts encrusted with a glaze of cat spit.

Maybe next year I’ll wrap the presents in chicken wire and staples.

Steven: “Hypothetically, if we filled up a vacuum cleaner bag, where would I find more?”

Me: “Sears.”

Steven: “No, I mean in the house.”

Me: “Oh, the utility closet.”

Steven: “Hypothetically, if there weren’t any there, then where would they be?”

Me: “Then hypothetically, we would be out. Hey, what if, hypothetically, you were to empty out the full bag some and attach it back on?”

Steven: “Easier said than done. Hey, I could use the vacuum cleaner to suck out the–oh.”