Darkness At The Edge Of The Stairs

I don’t live there anymore. It will always be home though.

When I go back now the house seems so much smaller than when I was a kid. The bedrooms seem more closed-in than years ago. The floors seem to creak now when they rarely did then. The house was always cold in winter but now it seems a few extra degrees colder during those chilly months. In summer the heat is almost insufferable but it never seemed to ever get that warm when I lived there.

I don’t go back as often as I wish I could. Life has a way of crowding many things together now that just make it near impossible sometimes to get back. When I do go back and pull into the driveway I drown in memories.

Even though it is the house where I grew up when I return now I understand it is no longer really my home. I don’t roam around it poking around in places like I might have when I lived there. This means usually when I am there I don’t always go into every room in the house.

A few months ago I was there. On this trip back, I was asked to retrieve something for my mom. Mom’s health has been up and down for about twenty years. She has slowly become more immobile. Her eyesight has grown weaker and weaker. On this day, Mom asked me to find a jacket she wanted to wear. With her poor health we all do what we can when asked. This jacket she wanted was stored in the basement of the house.

The basement in the house where I grew up is one of those places where I rarely go when I am back home. Time is precious during visits so I try to spend the time there with family in the rooms where they are, the living room, kitchen or dining room or even outside. I just don’t often take those steps down into the dark into that part of the house partially submerged underground.

Thanks in part to movies and television basements have a scary reputation. What media have you watched or read where a sinister bad guy hid in the shadows of a basement just waiting for that perfect moment to scare you out of your skin? Added to that is the fact that the basement in the house where I grew up had only one inside access route. We had a room at the back of the house we called the “playroom”. This room wasn’t a bedroom but was instead just a room where toys were kept. Admittedly, Mom and Dad also kept some stuff in there but for the most part, the playroom was almost always associated by any kids in the house as the room where the toys could be found. That was all well and good unless you lived there, which I did. You see I seem to recall being told that the boogieman just might live down there in the basement. Looking back, I am sure I was told that so I wouldn’t go down there and get into something or maybe even slip out the backdoor of the house. Still, for a long time I was a staunch believer in this mysterious boogieman. Despite the potential danger I felt from this unknown thing I could always find something fun to do in the playroom even though over in the corner of that room was a doorway which led down a steep set of steps then onto a landing which then turned down into another shorter set of steps into the actual basement.

I can remember being very young standing at the top of the steps peering down those concrete steps painted gray then beyond into a velvety darkness which seemed soaked in dampness. The darkness that engulfed the edges of my vision seemed to be the very deepest shades of darkness ever. I recall that partway down that first long set of steps to the right was an open area in the wall. The open area was big enough for a human to crawl through into the half of the basement that was never dug out completely. I never remember finding a reason to slip into that open area. Maybe I felt that area was the place where the boogieman kept residence.

As I grew older my Mom and Dad remodeled the playroom. By then the toys which once kept me and others occupied sat quietly and still in the room. When Dad was finished with the room makeover the long steep set of steps had been covered over boxed in now as a closet standing about chest high replacing part of that area. He then built a shorter set of steps at the playroom door which would take a person to the landing and turn which led into the final set of steps into the basement. In that room, a sofa with a pullout bed was added along with an old black-and-white TV connected to the outdoor antenna. Suddenly, I had a second bedroom. This room never had heat in it so sleeping there in the winter was generally not an option because the cool air from the basement drifted in from the steps. During summer though I ended up spending nights turning on the TV after I felt Mom and Dad had gone to sleep and watched the grainy images of the three channels we could pick up all the while lounging in that sofa-sleeper. Best of all, Dad rigged up a light to illuminate the landing into the basement that could be turned on just before you went down the steps. Now if you stood at the top of these new steps into the basement that light stamped out the damp darkness from earlier days.

The renovation made the basement become a much cooler place. Of course as I aged I understand the only boogieman around was one that lived in my imagination from my younger days. With time the basement became more of a place to find rest from the summer heat or a place to just escape especially when family came to visit then got on every last nerve. Dad would add a shower stall to the basement so if someone had a long day working outside that shower could be used so as to not mess up the upstairs bathroom. As the years passed, the basement become an all right place.

Still, not living there any longer, it had been a long time since I had gone into the basement in that house. Mom’s coat had to be found. I stood at the top of the stairs, flipped on the light switch which triggers the light at the stair landing and took a deep breath.

To be continued…

I'm Just Going To Leave This Right Here: The Riding The Roads Edition

As a family it seems as if we are on the road going somewhere almost as much as we are home. Trips to school, church, shopping or visits to family and friends are on the way every time we strap ourselves into the car and drive down the street. Longtime readers of this blog may recall a long series of articles, inspired by some of my Facebook posts, about how our daughter Hannah then just three years old was already a backseat driver. All this is said to illustrate that transportation, in the form of an automobile, is a necessary part of virtually every day of our lives together.

I am a firm believer if everyone on the roads today would just drive the way I drive then the whole process of going-to and coming-from somewhere would make the whole world more tolerable. Others, including some who know me quite well, might disagree. They are free to have their opinion even if it is wrong.

That said, there are some things that I just shake my head at when it comes to life in the world of traveling in a car. Frankly, I just don’t understand the idea that backing into a parking space makes much of a difference about anything. Sure, it may provide a quicker exit when it’s time to leave. That is fine until I am waiting in the car behind you for the seeming eternity it takes you to maneuver then adjust your car by backing into a parking space just so you can exit quickly. Either way takes time. I am also no fan of being in thick traffic when the car ahead of me decides to stop to allow someone on a side street to pull out into traffic. I am all about being nice but on the road you have an obligation to keep traffic moving and not cause a rear-end accident just so one person can try to pull across six lanes of traffic because they refuse to drive one block to catch the red light like almost everyone else. And don’t even get me started about the person who parks the wrong way in a parking space so that when they leave they are pulling into incoming traffic. Those giant white arrows painted on the ground are a hint if you are willing to pay attention.

I know that in the grand scheme of things these things are not really all that important. In reality I am just thankful each time I arrive safely at any destination. The truth of the matter is that the roads today are no place for wimps. I do believe road rage exists. We often see and hear news stories about such hoping we never find ourselves in such a situation. I do though believe so many of these things I mentioned add up to pile on to other things that anger and frustrate us. Maybe we can keep them from turning into road rage but we do sometimes let them turn into road rudeness.

Maybe we tailgate a slow-moving car. Maybe the guy behind us on the entry ramp tailgates us then swerves around us long before the lane ends. Maybe there’s a cop sitting hidden on the way to work causing us to slow down even though we are late. Maybe the car in the next parking space is a more than a bit sideways making it hard to open a door.

It’s always something. Still, all these things can add up to making life behind the wheel more frustrating than what is really needed. If you feel that same frustration, a frustration I sometimes also feel, know I am here to help. It is vital we never fall prey to committing road rage. We should also avoid road rudeness. What is the remedy? I am not sure I have the answer for all but I can provide an answer that maybe might lighten things some.

So, put your car in Park, turn off the ignition then become acquainted with the Trunk Monkey by clicking the link below. I’m just going to leave this here in case you need it. And don’t forget objects in your mirror really are closer than they appear.

The best of the Trunk Monkey

It's All In The Details

Ever been mildly shocked at learning something about someone that you never really knew until you were struck with a certain feeling of realization? Recently, this happened to me. I must admit it took me by surprise almost to the point of being without words for a moment. It started with a simple phone call.

Since my parents live about an hour and a half away and since we are unable to visit them frequently I make it a habit to call them at least three times a week. As they have grown older and a bit more feeble I feel these calls are also a way to gauge how they are feeling serving as a way for me to see if they need anything. My parents see my frequent calls as opportunities to talk to their granddaughter, Hannah. Hannah understands my ritual. She knows that certain evenings during the week I will call her grandparents. Sometimes, she wants to chat with them, sometimes not. Sometimes when she does she doesn’t quite know what to say since the phone already means something totally different to her generation than to my generation. Still, recently, she asked me when we were going to call Mammaw.

Now let me step back to provide a bit of background on where this story goes. A few months prior to this phone call, Hannah and I were home one afternoon. The weather forecast for the day included a chance of very severe thunderstorms. Most of the day though had been rain-free and storm-free until about three in the afternoon. Then, clouds filled the sky dimming the natural light outside. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the winds began to pick up velocity. I walked into our dining room to look outside the windows. I noticed

our deck table complete with a sun umbrella speared into it’s very center. The umbrella had proved to be a bit too heavy for the table previously as on more than one occasion, strong winds had tipped them both over. One time the wind had tossed the umbrella against one of the dining room windows. As the storm brewed I could hear rain beginning to fall and the wind howl. I realized though I needed to better secure the umbrella. I then stepped onto the deck to wrestle the umbrella from the table. At first I sat it on the desk trying to weigh it down with the patio chairs but that didn’t seem to work well as it still seemed like it might become a projectile if just the right gust swept under it. I determined I then needed to fold the umbrella up to set it inside the house. Part of the umbrella though didn’t want to collapse. As I struggled with it the rain grew heavier and the winds grew stiffer so I determined I had to get this umbrella inside our house one way or the other. And, so I did. When I did though I squeezed the umbrella to make it go through the door and small pieces of it began to fall to the floor. The storm would pass. I would later inspect the umbrella only to come to the realization that fixing it was quite unlikely. This meant at some point a new umbrella would need to be purchased for the deck table.

This brings us to the phone call Hannah and I had with her grandparents recently. The day before this phone call Hannah and I had purchased a new umbrella for the deck table. When we got home that night, just before dark, I pulled it out of it’s packaging so I could assemble it then place it in the table. At that point, I was able to fully visualize the color, texture, patterns and design of the umbrella as neither Hannah or I could quite do that from it’s packaging. On our phone call I mentioned how we had bought a new umbrella for the table. My mom asked Hannah the color of the umbrella. Hannah then provided her grandmother, and me, a very detailed description of the umbrella. She described the two shades of brown on it. She talked about the design pattern around the umbrella. The umbrella also has an image imprint that looks a good deal like a spade from a deck of cards although the design is a bit different. She called the design “hearts” and when I inspected the umbrella later I could see where she could visualize a heart from that design. She even mentioned to her grandmother how the umbrella had a small skirt near it’s top.

As Hannah described this umbrella I am sure my mouth popped open. I never suspected she had captured the detail she described in the little time she had observed it. I also never suspected she would describe those details in such an elaborate and eloquent way. After she finished it took me a second to say anything. I then told my mom that Hannah had just described the umbrella with much more detail than I could ever hope to do.

I am not sure right now what any of it means. It seems I spend much of my time with Hannah at her age discovering things I know well through her eyes. I must say this is one of the most remarkable and rewarding things I have ever experienced. This though is different. I am watching her take her own observations, filter them through her own experiences then turn it all into her own words. As I watch this with her Mom, as we watch her grow, we are often left, as we are now, without words when we realize the simple but sometimes complex details she brings into our lives.