Friday nights were date nights. Not for me or any one of my eight brothers and sisters, but for mom and dad.
Once Drew turned twelve, for us, Friday nights included macaroni and cheese from or box or sometimes homemade pizza with hamburger meat and cheddar cheese, and Nick at Nite in mom and dad's room. Basically it was a free-for-all. The boys were in charge, but with a Nintendo 64 in the house and no parental supervision, a brawl would always take place at about 7 p.m.over who cheated at Mario Kart.
We all had chores we were assigned to do, with the promise of a treat when mom and dad arrived back home. Being the oldest girl, I always was in charge of putting the dishes in the dishwasher. I loathed this chore. It was impossible to complete before everyone was in bed, because dirty dishes were always accumulating. Often, I left the stacks of orange stained bowls and plates for too long and would fall asleep without completing my chore. Meant I got a stern shake at 10 p.m. , and the sharp voice of my mother saying, "Destry, you didn't do the dishes", which to my preteen ears was as bad as a nightmare coming true.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Poetry
The sounds of summer at the Highway 24 house was mom's dishwasher churning on an endless cycle, bearing a load of soiled dishes from the most recent feeding of us nine kids, passing semitruck brakes shrieking to a stop at the bottom of Radar Hill, and the lawn mower. How I always avoided the dreaded task of mowing the lawn is a lucky coincidence. I happened to have two older brothers and at only 10-11, was just a bit too small and weak to push the mower in a straight line.
After Drew or Dustin had finished the task, and the white New Balance sneakers stained with streaks of green were tossed on the show shelf , I could sit under the blue sky on the trampoline and read my book, with sweet smells of overturned dirt and cut grass perfuming the air. Sometimes I would write. Not stories or poems, but just write to feel the satisfaction of the ink gliding from the pen to the paper and the thrill of forming letters with perfect penmanship.
My grandmother had a book of poems at her house that I loved, so I took it. The poems were about the colors of the rainbow and I loved to read them and imagine them. Each color was it's own poem, and I laid belly-down on the black canvas and copied those lovely poems into my steno notebook. When I finished, I ripped the pages out, and not sure what I would do with them, left them side the cover of the book.
Weeks later, I found the book and knew I should return to to grandmas. After school, I walked across the playground and down Catalpa street to the house with the giant split Birch tree. This was a walk I frequented two or three times per week, usually to help with the paper route. That's why I walked that road today, but before I started folding and banding the papers I returned the book, removing my copied pages. The pages were left with my book bag on the pleather couch while I did my section of the paper route.
By the time I returned to Catalpa street, the book of poems was completely forgotten, and I settled in to watch "Law and Order" with grandpa while waiting for dad to pick me up after work to take me home.
Days later, my grandmother found those copied pages, and was amazed by the poems. She congratulated me with a dumbfounded look and a smile, wondering how I had hid this talent. I never had the heart to tell her I didn't write them.
After Drew or Dustin had finished the task, and the white New Balance sneakers stained with streaks of green were tossed on the show shelf , I could sit under the blue sky on the trampoline and read my book, with sweet smells of overturned dirt and cut grass perfuming the air. Sometimes I would write. Not stories or poems, but just write to feel the satisfaction of the ink gliding from the pen to the paper and the thrill of forming letters with perfect penmanship.
My grandmother had a book of poems at her house that I loved, so I took it. The poems were about the colors of the rainbow and I loved to read them and imagine them. Each color was it's own poem, and I laid belly-down on the black canvas and copied those lovely poems into my steno notebook. When I finished, I ripped the pages out, and not sure what I would do with them, left them side the cover of the book.
Weeks later, I found the book and knew I should return to to grandmas. After school, I walked across the playground and down Catalpa street to the house with the giant split Birch tree. This was a walk I frequented two or three times per week, usually to help with the paper route. That's why I walked that road today, but before I started folding and banding the papers I returned the book, removing my copied pages. The pages were left with my book bag on the pleather couch while I did my section of the paper route.
By the time I returned to Catalpa street, the book of poems was completely forgotten, and I settled in to watch "Law and Order" with grandpa while waiting for dad to pick me up after work to take me home.
Days later, my grandmother found those copied pages, and was amazed by the poems. She congratulated me with a dumbfounded look and a smile, wondering how I had hid this talent. I never had the heart to tell her I didn't write them.
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