Let’s Make a Memory: Failed Christmas Plans

I am already aware that I am standing on shaky ground by telling a story that involves my husband's family, but I must record an experience that surely qualifies as a Griswold Christmas disaster! My husband and his sisters cheerfully agreed to gather in Columbus, GA a few days before Christmas. In prime firstborn form, the eldest prepared fabulous food and planned family activities to stir up our Christmas cheer.

Besides stuffing ourselves, popping English Crackers, drinking bottled Dublin Dr. Pepper and taking turns in the massage chair, our big excursion was to “Fantasy in Lights” at Calloway Gardens, a stunning golf resort in Pine Mountain, GA. The weather report was unseasonably warm, but rain was in the forecast. Undeterred (i.e. tickets not refundable for inclement weather), we caravanned an hour,  willing the weather to improve. Besides, [not naming names] assured us that the trolleys have clear plastic sides that unroll in the event of showers.

As we entered the resort, there were already dozens of vehicles lined up for the "self-drive-through later that evening. Those poor people (we sighed) must wait forever plus miss the narration by “Sunshine the Horse”on the seven mile drive through thirteen scenes created with eight million lights (Fantastic Fact: equivalent 26,666 standard 6-foot tall Christmas Trees)! By the time we parked, it was pouring rain. Thankfully we had four or five umbrellas between the ten of us . . .

Maybe we should have wondered about the confusion among the workers who were loading the trolley, but ultimately we were shooed onto a pick-up towed trolley WITHOUT clear plastic sides that unroll during TORRENTIAL rain. When the first doubters started complaining we were reminded, “We’re making memories!” so the passengers on the end of each row stuck out their umbrellas to help keep the rain out . . . until it began to blow sideways.  Later, I was mildly interested to note how the water dripped down the umbrella pole, through my shirt cuff and out my left pant leg.

The rest of the tour is a clammy, drippy blur, partly because of my curiosity about whether lightning could strike my protruding umbrella despite the trolley's rubber tires. By the way, we could barely hear Sunshine the Horse, only an occasional whinny or clip clop. Sometimes we would pass a speaker reminiscent of old drive-in theaters, urging us to sing “Jingle Bells,” “Winter Wonderland” or “The 12 Days of Christmas.”

Despite everything, we sang quite loudly and happily.  After all, we half expected it to be our last time caroling, as the 10 o clock news would report it: “Family Electrocuted in Santa's Workshop.”  I admit there were moments when we emitted “oohs and aahs” over the lights we could see between our umbrellas and the plexiglass windshield, but they were quickly eclipsed by flashlights directing us to detours where the road was washing out.

Finally Christmas Tree Lane came into view—hurrah, we made it to the final two scenes, each with 10-minutes of narration . . . but alas, “The Night Before Christmas” and “The Nativity” were no longer on the program. In fact, the camel and manger lights were shut off by the time we returned. No lines for the 6:30 show. No teens to help us off the trolleys. No cars queued up for a drive through. Just flooded bathrooms drenched visitors, and hot funnel cakes for sale. Still, we shivered our way back home with a minimum of griping or cursing. In the end, the siblings agreed on one thing for certain . . . we will never forget the Fantasy in Lights--or make it an annual family tradition!

Clark would be proud

Saying Goodbye to Bintliff Drive: The Final Viewing (Pt. 4)

 I had a strange thought recently, that my parents' house and the neighborhood surrounding it are my peers—we’re all in our fifties, so it’s harder to hide the wear and tear; on the other hand, we’ve also matured and become more multicultural.  It seems ironic that the elementary school at the end of the street now holds more English Language Learners than native speakers, including most of Houston's Somali Bantu children (the refugee group I've advocated for since 2004).  When I moved on to the Jr. High at the other end of the street  in 1967, it was still a "neighborhood" school, meaning the student body was 100% Caucasian. It wasn't until 9th grade that zoning artificially "integrated" our schools. A few of the original neighbors still live in Braes Timbers--on two streets nestled within the area called Robindell--like most of my contemporaries, I haven't lived there in more than thirty years . . . but everything that took place there is indelibly imprinted on my soul--even the life lessons I learned from the dogs on our street (click here to read).

The Last Visit

Last Sunday--May Day (or Lei Day in Hawaii according to my dad's WWII memories)--my younger sister and I loaded up the last of the things we are taking to our own homes.  I have been hassling with the shipment of the antique door that was originally on my great grandparents' house in Marlin--then it became the kitchen door on my parents' house--and whenever it finally finds its way to Tennessee, I'll make it either my pantry or back door.  My older sister weighed it on her bathroom scale and declared it to weigh 145 lbs.--that knocked out the UPS store and Parcels Plus--and none of the movers returned my calls . . . we managed to get it in the back of my sister's Toyota Venza (with the hatch closed) so it will stay in North Texas until I come for it this summer. She also took my grandfather's manual lawnmower and some antique gardening tools I couldn't pass up.  The old victrola that once lived at Gammy Everett's in Conroe has only made it to North Houston so far .  . . I'm trusting that one of my brothers in law will finally agree to move it one more time so all my loot can travel to Tennessee on one trip!

Goodbye Family Room

Our kitchen, breakfast area and den was one big room, so everything that happened to one of us was in community.  Our one television was parked there, so we had to learn to agree on what to watch before the 10 o'clock news. The kitchen table was the site of our meals as well as homework and projects--and the red rotary wall phone had a long cord, but not long enough for very private conversations.  One time my sister thought my dad had hung up the second phone until her boyfriend asked, "What's new pussycat?" and my dad answered, "Who wants to know?"

Goodbye Kitchen

The kitchen looks about the same as it always did, but it's had a face lift, like a new oven and refrigerator. I still miss the vintage brown oven that finally bit the dust in 2009 after 48 years (read about it here). I've already placed my grandmother's needlepoint in my own kitchen--Google didn't uncover the source of the quote, "Time removes all things but love and truth," but I believe it now more than ever. Suppertime was always 6:30 p.m. and my dad was home promptly at 6:00.  Like "Leave it to Beaver" days, Mom made sure that we all sat together at the table to eat--without the television on. She taught school, then after lying down on the couch for about 30 minutes she would get up and cook a real dinner.  As we got older, we each chose a school night to help prepare a meal--those girl scout badges and 8th grade home ec. classes paid off a little. I so wish I had a picture of the dishwashing chart in the kitchen cabinet that we constantly fought over until we went away to college. Spoiled!

Honey's needlepoint philosophy (author unknown)

Their 1958 original oven was only replaced a year or so ago

Goodbye "Back" Bedroom

Our 3-2-2 1950's ranch style house meant all the bedrooms were situated in a row on one short hall. My parents shared the "front" room, my little sister had the middle room and my older sister and I shared the back room until she went away to college a year ahead of me. Before central air conditioning, we had a big brown air conditioner in the wall above our twin beds.  To help the airflow down the hall, we had to keep our door open--so we could never get away with shenanigans at bedtime.  That, and our dad's "radar ears" meant if we even whispered to each other in the dark, he would come smacking his newspaper against his hand . . . as if he would ever have spanked either one of us (our parents were Dr. Spock disciples in that era).  We had one long window that looked out over the magnolia tree and swingset--but in Houston, you rarely opened the windows--about all I remember about that window are the fire safety practices where my dad demonstrated how to use our doll high chair to bust the glass and climb out in case of a fire . . . and the times he would scratch on our screen to try to scare us!  When we finally got central air conditioning, wegot new "frenchy" antiqued bunkbeds but the room was still pretty crowded for two teenaged girls with very different personalities and cleaning habits . . . my only privacy was in the closet, where I would close myself in and write poems and little tomes like "What I will not do when I am a parent."  Once we went away to college, we were shocked to learn that our parents did not intend to enshrine our room--once we moved out our grandmother lived in there for seven years so it became known as "Honey's room", and finally just the "back bedroom."

Goodbye Blue Bathroom

Another characteristic of 50's houses is small bathrooms, though the one three sisters shared was bigger than the tiny master bath that barely held a sink, toilet and shower.  My mom's favorite color is BLUE, so everything she could talk my dad into was painted or "antiqued" that color--the carpet, the china cabinet, our dresser, even our bathroom walls and cabinets! We had alot of fun and squabbles in there--playing "Hawaii" (making waves) in the tub, doctoring scrapes with Camphophenique (click here for my dad's answer to any problem), experimenting with mascara and orange juice can curlers, and hiding "evidence" inside the big plastic bonnet attached to the hair dryer. 

Still baby blue after all these years

Goodbye Living Room

My favorite room in the house, and the hardest to say goodbye to, was the living room. It was the only somewhat private part of our home, with a door that closed it off from the hall, and sliding pocket doors that closed it off from the family room. It contained a drop leaf mahogany table, whose sides were raised to host big holiday dinners with relatives. This was also the room for our Christmas trees--usually "snow" flocked Scotch Pines , perfectly lighted and beautifully decorated despite the wear and tear on our parents' relationship. The stereo and couch also provided a pretty cozy date place, when you didn't have to compete with another sister for the space, or worry about being too loud after 10:30 p.m. 

Goodbye Piano

The reason I loved our living room most was the Baldwin Acrosonic piano that has never been moved since 1965.  Once I started piano lessons in 3rd grade, I loved singing show tunes, practicing classical pieces, picking out pop songs by ear, and composing music for my poetry sitting on the bench my grandmother needlepointed. When I became a melancholy teen, I would close the doors and escape to another zone for hours at a time.

Goodbye Bintliff Drive

All essential mail has been forwarded to the new apartment, so the house quietly awaits its new owners . . . empty, except for two chairs and the piano standing guard until the closing--I wonder how many dreams and feelings were channeled through those ivory keys by tens of pint sized to wrinkled fingers?  Gran's favorite song was "Melody in F."  Honey's was "Mighty Like a Rose." Mother's is "Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee" and Daddy and I made harmony on "Little Brown Jug".  My sisters, cousins and neighbors could play a variety of funny duets, most of which our parents cringed to hear over and over again, so those were the very songs I plunked out for the last "recital.". Surprisingly, Dad gave the piano to his Hungarian neighbor who has helped maintain the house ever since he found asylum in the U.S. It just wasn't practical move it across country for my daughter. After my nephew snapped one last picture, we drove away, pledging not to shed any more tears. I supposed we are starting to realize that we are so blessed to still have each other, to be leaving (somewhat) on our own terms--we merely lack a central meeting place.  Though Bintliff drive has been the "epicenter" of family life for half a century, our only true anchor is in another country. One by one, over the next few years or decades, our family will eventually reunite to sing new songs, to create new memories.

Saying Goodbye to Bintliff Drive: 1-800-GOT-JUNK? (Part 3)

SOLD

The day I've been anticipating and dreading--finally came two days ago on "May Day," but before my last round of reflections and the final goodbyes, I'll review some of last week's logistics--and our last few sweaty days of straining our lungs and our muscles to empty the house for its new owners!

Goodbye Attic

Last visit, my older sister and I completed the sorting process she and my younger sister had faithfully fulfilled in my absence. What was left to claim or toss was now in the garage on folding tables. After packing up seven boxes and mailing them to myself, we had inventoried the "few things" allegedly left in the attic. Dad had strongly reminded us that at least one worker's foot had already ripped through their sheetrock ceiling trying to move things up there. I wasn't as worried about that as brown recluse spiders. Arachnaphobe that I am, I donned pink rubber gloves before going up the rickety ladder. 

Sure enough, there was WAY more up there than Dad remembered, so we spent hours throwing down piles of decrepid, disintegrated things through the 48"X48" hole he once cut in the garage ceiling to haul large items up and down on rigged up pulleys. We were having fun now, shouting, "Gone!" "Bye bye!" "Gross!!!" as we choked on dust mites and filled the City of Houston trash and recycle cans and made trips back and forth to Goodwill.

Our [abridged] Inventory : Dozens of door wreaths that “Patsy Cleaver” changed out every season—made from everything from Texas Barbed wire to Sunhats with dried flowers—an all weather cemetery wreath . . . and all kinds of  carefully labeled but unusable "Christmas Crap" that had been hung in the front windows over the decades.  Several pieces of luggage and one stroller, sealed up in black trashbags; small narrow bookshelf with contact paper on shelves—green and gold pom poms and cheerleading megaphones from Jr. and Sr. high . . . and the  giant scarecrow on a bamboo pole (rejected by Goodwill, but dumped in McDonald’s dumpster next door)—no tears here, just a hearty buh bye! 

 We were shocked to find two unidentified wooden beds, a toy box we sort of remembered from early childhood,  some broken down tables and a hideously upholstered chair spread out in corners we couldn't  safely get to--we already knew our great grandmother's heavy old  Brunswick Victrola would probably hang over the eaves on the other side of the attic fan until Jesus returns.

Goodbye Junk!

It has been exhausting for three chicks in their fifties to do all the physical work we've had to accomplish the last several months, so it didn't take much research to convince us to divide the cost to have 1-800-GOT-JUNK to come haul off the things none of our family members had claimed.  The way this wonderful company works is you pay for volume (i.e. how much of their truck is filled) not time--they look at what you want hauled away, give you an estimate, then load it up on the spot (and sweep up too!)  We were nervous about all the stuff in the attic, but they claim that it doesn't matter where it is or what it is . . . without consulting our dad, we made an appointment.

They were great!  Friendly, efficient, and fast--worth every penny (3/4 of a truckload of pennies) and we didn't have to lift a finger--but we couldn't keep from joining in!

Still, we were nervous when Nat and Javier  were ready to throw back the giant attic fan on its hinges and attempt to lower the solid wood victrola casing with the original ropes still wrapped around it. They didn't bat an eyelash about balancing themselves on the eaves to resurrect it from the precarious place it had rested for at least twenty years. "Sweet!" we giggled when it plopped softly down on the old white bedspread. "What was it for?" they asked?  Silly young things!

We uncovered a few other unexpected treasures too: a children's rocker with a hand painted little boy and girl and a music box that plays when it rocks--I'll restore it for my little grandson; Papa Stallworth's custom-made fishing rod, carefully bagged within a long metal cylinder, an old railroad lantern; dozens of love letters and telegrams Dad sent to Mom before they married--amazing since we never thought of him as "mushy" until recently; a big wooden paddle my mom made as a joke (kind of) when she taught Jr. High English--one side has two nails sticking out of it with red paint that's supposed to look like blood--it say's "Heat for the Seat."  The flip side says, "Mr. Thompson's Board of Education (he was the assistant principal).  These days, we'd probably be arrested for displaying such a thing in a classroom.

A few days ago, in a final sweep, my nephew's persistence--and a good Mag Lite--uncovered my dad's Navy bootcamp picture and a bag of his high school drafting sketches of homes he hoped to build someday.  That was worth every bit of sweat and grime we had from head to toe!

"Are we the only crazy people who want to take pictures of you?" 
"No . . . every now and then somebody wants to, like maybe a mystery shopper."

Goodbye Garage

Our garage wasn't the kind of  place three daughters hung out very much, but it was once a great place to play school or jump rope on a rainy afternoon. We kept a small table and chairs my sister won at Sacco's Grocery outside the kitchen door.  We used it for messy art projects, and each of us spent at least one meal out there for breaking table rules like "Mabel Mabel strong and able, get your elbows off the table." Saturday, when I took my dad by the house to show him that it stood virtually empty, he said he hasn't seen it that clean since they moved in (1958). I didn't consider that it might hit him hard to see that all of his screws and nails and nuts and tools and turpentine and screens and jars and paint brushes were GONE--everything he had used to build it, fix it, rig it, lift it--you get the picture.

The empty attic

When we went out back to view the equally bare shed, I think it sunk in for both of us that this is it. Each of us worked to stay composed as we went to separate bathrooms to blow our noses and wipe our eyes, but to no avail--we both lost it, agreeing that "the happiest years of my life were spent here." 

We gathered ourselves up, again, lowered the garage doors and drove away in silence. By the time we got to their apartment, we were smiling again about our outing to stop by an old friend's house, buying new socks on sale at JC Penney, our burger and chocolate shake for lunch--and the Creme Swirl lollipop from Walgreens (our motto on those outings--"don't ask, don't tell"). I offered to take my mom on Sunday, when we would load up my antique door, lawnmower and victrola, but she didn't take me up on it--she'd rather remember the house as it was for her--always full of people and good memories. 

Saying Goodbye to Bintliff Drive (Part 2)

[Intro to last post ] In November, my parents moved away from 9203 Bintliff Drive, the geographical epicenter of our family for fifty-two years. They are starting to construct a more “manageable” life in a retirement community that offers a continuum of care. After only four weeks on the market, we happily accepted a full price offer, so another four weeks from now--after one last purge of the garage and shed--we must exchange our final goodbyes . . .  [Part One click here.]

Goodbye Red Patio

I will miss sitting outside during the fifteen or twenty breezy minutes between Houston's sunset and the arrival of its notorious mosquitoes. Patios (from the Spanish: meaning “back garden”) are an entertaining area adjoining a house and are typically made of concrete or stone slabs—ours was always painted—and repainted—terra cotta red.  We lived fifty miles from the coast, but could set our clocks by the turn of the warm Gulf breeze each evening.  My mom would often call, “Come sit on the patio before the mosquitoes get us!” then Dad would inevitably add, “Shut the sliding door!”  Our yard was small, but full of interesting greenery, colorful flowers, bird feeders and attractive containers with hibiscus, roses and drought surviving annuals that they tenderly cared for.

Among all the other big trees (an orginal live oak is above), there was a small magnolia outside my bedroom. The lawnmower “stunted” it when it was very young, but that deep nick kept it just the right size to shade my window and produce fragrant lemony blooms that often floated in a bowl on the kitchen table. Eventually it had to be chopped down, then Dad erected a fun little fort that all eight grandchildren enjoyed—a small cutting garden sits there now.  There is also a big beautiful American Holly tree--not the first, but defnitely the prettiest because of the brilliant red berries that can be enjoyed from the breakfast room window several months a year.  

 One of the oldest fixtures at "Bintliff" is the squeaky, silver swing set (minus original rings and trapeze) that steadfastly helped release megatons of energy and stress from three daughters,  then all the grandchildren!  More recently it officially entertained a fourth generation, my grandson and their only great-grandchild. In the picture below, his cool great-grandmother could still glide pretty high at age 80!

Best backyard memories: I remember catching frogs in a glass jar (which broke, cutting the tendon in my tiny 4 year old thumb); I remember the masking tape crisscrossed on the sliding patio doors, and the towering birdhouse that fell on our roof during Hurricane Carla (1961); I remember my best party ever—a surprise backyard carnival for my 7^th birthday.

My cousins, Alan and Bryan, performed a magic show at my carnival party

I remember playing catch with my Dad the years I played Ladybug softball; I remember practicing herky jumps and Apollo Queen routines during junior high and high school; I  remember playing hide and seek with “Sam I, II and III”, our beloved Siamese cats (Daddy called them all "Fleabag"); I remember grilling steaks basted in butter and garlic salt on the red Weber charcoal grill; and I remember all the piñatas, egg hunts and watermelons shared with neighbors and relatives, then brothers in law, nieces and nephews. As I say goodbye to the old red patio, I’m only adopting two things for my own little patio—a log cabin birdhouse and a white birdbath which will fit right into the haven I enjoy as much as my parents did—we may not have the Gulf breeze in the evenings, but I sure won’t miss those ominous culex mosquitoes (click for some icky images of the insects our county's "skeeter skooters" valiently battled! (to be continued)