“Taste it mama,” a plastic spoon was shoved into my face. A toy kitchen sat adjacent to the bed, still decorated with the scribbles my best friend and I put to it twenty years ago. A rattling fan was still spinning overhead, and it still hasn’t fallen on top of anyone. An ugly painting I did twenty years ago is still on the wall, despite my mom finally painting over the canary yellow I had picked out. My old bedroom is now a muted sea mist sort of color. My kids don’t know they are staying in my childhood room. I couldn’t imagine my kids would ever stay in it, when I lived in it. Past and present smashed together into a somewhat uncomfortable fit. There isn’t the physical space for an adult version of me, plus two little me’s.
There’s a huge, old live oak across the street. A gold streetlight shines beneath its branches so that the hanging moss shields part of the light, or creates moving shadows against the windows on windy nights. That streetlight used to be soothing to me—it equated to peaceful home time, when I could be safe in bed and did not have the day’s troubles. No school drama while that light was shining. I hadn’t looked at it in years. Now it is just a streetlight.
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The backyard used to be full of water oaks. Hurricane by hurricane, they’ve all come tumbling down, like something in a nursery rhyme. Water oaks are short-lived, as far as trees go; an insult to a Floridian’s yard. To my childhood self, they were magic. I was a squirrel running up the trunks, high into the sky in places that cannot bare the weight of a human. Up high in those branches there were little houses, like squirrels have in children’s books. Snug little houses with painted doors, where squirrels slept in soft little beds.
Now the tot wonders through her grandparent’s land, live oaks replaced with even more flowers than before. She is so small, it must be like a fairy flitting around in a forest. It is so good for children to see beauty like that—the brilliant colors, the smells, the movement in the breeze. Love of nature comes easy in a fairy forest. I was blessed with that love, and it’s never left me.
Through the flowers, along the mulch path, around the drying stumps of long fallen water oaks, into a wire fence, to the orange tree. I am not so small now—the opening in the branches cascading downward isn’t as welcoming, but inside it is still beautiful. It is a large umbrella, tied off to the ground by a gnarly trunk, and weighted in place with a load of green oranges. At the base of the trunk is a graveyard. There lie many mice, tiny fish, a few hamsters, and at least one gerbil. Poor fellows. I think they lived decent lives. Twenty years ago they fertilized the oranges for us, as a parting gift.
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I haven’t lived in this house for thirteen years. I can remember the sense of isolation when I left. For a few years I returned frequently, aching for the familiar. Then, something happened. Adulthood crept up. It isn’t home anymore.
The same old door knob is on the bedroom door. The tiles on the floor are now scratched and cracked, but familiar. As lovely as it all was when it was new and shiny, I’d rather be here with it older and wiser.
I wouldn’t go back to childhood. Not for a minute.
I have lived away from my homehome for seven years now, but for me, it always still feels like the real home when I go back. I wonder if that will one day change.
Interesting. I think in my case part of it may have to do with proximity, and part family. I am only 1 1/2 hrs from my parents, so I can go whenever, and I now have children - which certainly shifts the mindset.
I would love to be 17 again...but know, what I know today....
I like my thirties thus far. I guess the good resilient health of 17 is pretty nice though.
Contrary to popular myth, the "good old days" are now. It's a good idea not to waste them.
It is tricky not wasting them. I just realized I've been staring at steemit on my phone instead of the half Moon overhead.
That flower looks so cool!
They are angel's trumpets. I love them.
howdy @ginnyannette! howya doin? seems like it's been awhile, at least in Steemit time..but maybe only a few hours. Hey those flowers hanging down, are those real one from your backyard and from those Water Oaks?
the house is older and wiser but are you?
They are called angel's trumpets, and they are very beautiful. I am definitely wiser :)
howdy this fine Sunday @ginnyannette! did ya'll go to church today or do they not believe in God in Florida? those flowers..are they a separate plant or are those the flowers of the Water Oaks? sorry I know that's minutia but I'm trying to get an image of your backyard. sorry I know you're wondering why I care what your backyard looks like. I don't know. but it IS a special place for you right?
having grown up there and all. I'm not just making idle conversation although it might look like it to an amateur. hey let me ask you a question: why in the world aren't you in a good group like Steemitbloggers?
They are a separate plant. Water oaks are just a type of oak tree.
I'm not a big fan of the groups. I go my own way :)
I understand completely because I'm the same way but I figured if it would help me get ahead then I'd try it.
I am with you. Adulthood all the way. Two things I would not mind. Having my 19 year old body back, heck I would take my 40 year old body back, menopause stinks, or I would be willing to freeze in a moment of time. It would still be adulthood but my kids would be little and my mom and brother would still be here. I choose 1992. 🙂
Interesting. I don't know that I'd pick a year at this point. I need some more life-time to think on it. I have had some good years though.
Menopause scares me. I'd better pick a year soon...
Believe me when you do pick it will be before menopause! If you find the formula please share. 1992 here I come...