Who's That Knocking?

“Home” for me involved at least ten different addresses between my 19th birthday, and my 30th. Since then, approaching 37 years, I have called this spot, five miles up Bell Springs Road, home. I can recall with some detail, all of the places I have labeled home; there is nothing unusual about that.

Memories are memories, right? They’re all more or less the same, give or take. Maybe they involve loved ones now departed; maybe they depict images of the interiors of specific rooms, rooms I have lived and loved in. Whatever. The memories crop up due to a wide variety of reasons, and I either savor them or shelve them.

I found out recently, though, that my previous assessment of memories as “more or less the same, give or take” requires adjustment. I am contending with a barrage of memories now, conjured up by visits from my grandson, Ollie Mac, and his pops, affectionately known in this space as SmallBoy. 

[Editor’s Note: Hmmm]

Memories “can’t be boughten; they can’t be won at carnivals for free,” sang John Prine, and he is dead on. No, memories are a gift from the gods, to ease the pain of past travails, and to offer solace for that which is gone forever.

However, I am readjusting my opinion of memories based on the fact that I am seeing in front of my eyes, a replay of SmallBoy as, well, a small boy. The setting in the kitchen is identical now, to what it was when SmallBoy would have been one year old, as Ollie Mac is now.

The ’20’s vintage Superior stove is still in place, with the walled-in pantry, rustic and practical, just behind it, the same varnish still adorning it, about seven shades darker than in 1986. The tongue-in-groove, 2-by-6 pine flooring is the same, and the same pragmatic kitchen table sits right where it was back in 1985. 

It was there the day SmallBoy, comfortably ensconced in his infant seat in the center of said table, was unceremoniously shoved off the table to fall face-first on the floor. Fortunately, and most cosmically, his face fell right onto a pillow, unfathomably lying on the floor beside the table. I have no clue why a pillow would be on the floor, partially beneath the table.

During the eight years I worked in the trades, prior to beginning my teaching career, I was the go-to guy in the house, when it came to tending small boys. I was up long before they ever were, I brought them downstairs, either on my back in the backpack, or otherwise, and we hung out together. We did so until GlutenFreeMama surfaced for her nectar of the gods, hot coffee prepared by me, and then the day officially began.

By the time SmallBoy came on the scene, our house was well child-proofed. All doors were affixed with those latches that required an adult's more deft fingers to manipulate, leaving small boys unable to gain access to doors number one-through twenty, or however many. All breakable or potentially harmful items had been rearranged so as to be well out of the reach of stretching arms with grasping fingers, and all steps, stairs and other climbing opportunities, had been effectively blocked off. 

We need to repeat the process, now that Olle is up and running. We also have to get Ellie Mae, our sweet rescue dog, used to Ollie Mac. When she is allowed in, she is the perfect hostess, wagging her tail and bestowing vast quantities of dog kisses on Ollie Mac, or at least she would if I did not remember all too vividly what it was that she-never mind. Let’s just say that Ellie Mae had Ollie Mac in stitches.

The little guy does love doggies.

Of course, I can remember both G’Day and Hazel, dogs of SmallBoy’s youth, and how he also loved doggies. These kinds of memories do not appear in the thrift shops GlutenFreeMama and I frequent, nor in the antique shops, either.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

There are certain unique-to-SmallBoy memories, like the wide circle of indentations on the door of the wood box, right behind the stove. It would seem that GF Mama had the unmitigated gall to try and take a quick shower one fine day, and SmallBoy raised a ruckus. 

When pounding on the door and screaming did not gain him access, he picked up the handiest thing he could find and started beating on the [plywood] door of the woodbox. GFMama could hear the far-off pounding over the sound of the shower and through the bathroom door, and contemplated the myriad of possibilities, but she never came close to reality.

As SmallBoy and I made with the palaver, SmallBoy following Ollie around closely, we chatted about how different it would be in the kitchen, were there a fire in the wood-burning stove. 

“Hot! Will burn you!” both GF Mama and I instinctively interjected, it being the standard after the first time immortalized it forever. 

“Funny thing about hot stoves,” I added. “Adults can warn littles until they’re blue in the face about hot stoves, but the reality is, it only generally takes one time for a kid who is already walking, to figure out that the stove is bad news if you touch it.”

One cardboard box: priceless...

As I watched SmallBoy pulling Ollie Mac around in a cardboard box, as though it were a wagon, I nodded sagely. Kids will find entertainment in the simplest of devices, as we did with blanket forts and toy grocery stores.

Some memories have more clout than others, and seeing your grandson in the identical setting as that in which you saw his father, at the same age, is one of them. Of course it does involve hanging out in the same place for more than a minute or two, but when you are living the dream, you don’t ever want to wake up.