History Preserved

I wrote an essay that was published in Origins, a magazine put out by Calvin College.  My essay begins on page 21.
http://www.calvin.edu/hh/origins/Spring12.pdf

A Tour of Memories

I wrote this story back in September, but it was always a favorite of my roommates and a favorite of mine.

Twice a year I fly halfway across the country to a place called home.  I hopscotch my way across the western United States till my last flight lands in Seattle, where it is inevitably raining.  Still, home is two hours north.  I travel between the Cascades’ towering presence to the east and the Pacific Ocean lapping against the shore to the west, up I-5 till the Guide Meridian exit, and down the Old Guide Road until finally, I hear the familiar sound of the gravel driveway crunching under the tires.  I am home.

The weather stripping sucks against the door frame as I push open the familiar front door.  I take a quick sniff to catch a whiff of home, as the only time you can smell your own home’s unique aroma is when you are returning.  I am greeted by our latest family picture hanging in the hallway rather than my parents’ presence because they are sound asleep at two a.m. 

Every time I come home, nuances have changed: Anna’s goldfish – Winston, Wilhelmina, and Little Pete – have each grown half an inch, the bathroom sink has been replaced, and the shutters have been painted olive green.  Despite the changes, most everything else remains the same; I can count on my memories remaining right where I left them.

The following morning while my parents are at work and my three younger sisters are in school, I walk alone down the hallway.  To the left are pictures of relatives.  My dad’s grandparents stare stoically, their portrait next to my favorite picture of all – my mom’s grandparents.  While I never knew them, I can see the twinkle in my great-grandpa’s eye, evidence of the fact that when he was a boy, he peed out of a tree onto someone’s head, a notorious family tale.

To the right, in the vacuum closet, hang a few cherished old dresses my mom sewed for my sisters and me – simple dresses and fancy dresses; dresses with lace and dresses with bows; dresses with fluffy white slips underneath, perfect for twirling.

At the end of the hallway stands one of the many bookcases, and just like the rest, it is filled to the brim.  Some books have yet to be read, and others have walked into my family’s lives and built a home in our hearts.  Six copies of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society sit waiting to be read again, after being picked up second-hand.  After all, a book this wonderful cannot be passed up after some poor, confused soul had the audacity to leave it at a thrift store; books have feelings too.

I come to my parents’ bedroom and peek inside. Above the bed hangs their wedding picture, love dancing in their eyes.  My dad’s bathroom, his only oasis in a household of five women, brings back memories of the Christmas long ago when I received my beloved tricycle.  He had secretly stowed it away in there, although how it fit in that little room, I may never know.

Then, I glance towards the closet and the three-pegged coat hook on the wall just outside the door.  On the center hook hangs a garment bag, holding a wedding dress – my wedding dress, the most beautiful wedding dress I have ever seen, patiently waiting to be revealed on May 12 next year.  I unzip the bag just enough to take a peek inside and then zip it up again before anyone sees me.

I pull the door closed across the shaggy brown carpet, and I walk past the bathroom, where countless hair-dos have been done and numerous teeth-brushing parties have occurred.

Renae and Anna’s room is directly across the hall, the room where I slept as a little girl, the room where Erica and I played Barbies for hours in the three-story Barbie house our dad built for us, the room where Renae and I used to shine flashlights into our neighbor’s living room, the room where I turned thirteen and received a red rose from my dad with a note that read, “I wanted to be the first man to ever give you flowers.”

The room next door is Erica’s, but it was mine for a few years.  Those were my walls, as was the wallpaper depicting stuffed animals having a tea party.  That was my bunk bed, and looking at it now, I remember a silly tale.  Once, in the middle of the night, I awoke to a size-fifteen-foot hanging down from the top bunk: my dad had taken refuge up there because my mom was sick with a cold.

Outside Erica’s room is the family room where once upon a time I learned to walk.  I found walking to be quite hilarious, and every time my two little legs managed to do it, I would giggle with glee.

The kitchen seems to quake in fear when I step onto the linoleum: I bring death upon unsuspecting kitchen appliances, both great and small.  The microwave, a candy thermometer, Tupperware lids, and a whisk.  Two sets of electric beaters.  I melted a fly swatter in the oven.  The fridge handle fell off into my hands all by itself, I promise!  Why the kitchen should tremble though, I have no idea.

Sliding open the glass back door, I step onto the cement patio and walk across the grass, water squelching out of the rain-soaked ground under my feet.  I’m about to enter my favorite room of all – mine.

I live in a playhouse.

Outside.

In my backyard.

Technically, it used to be the playhouse, but my dad put in insulation, drywall, and a wooden floor.  After seventeen years, I had a haven to call my own, even if it was a mere seven by seven feet.  The walls are painted cowboy tan, my grandpa’s old lariat hangs on a horseshoe hook, and a pair of cowboy boots sits outside the door.  I once dreamed of marrying a cowboy and moving to a ranch in Wyoming, but that is not where my wedding dress is taking me.  The man of my dreams is from the city, but I can still wear my Ariat boots once in a while.

I walk across the yard in the opposite direction and enter my dad’s shop, sawdust tickling my nostrils.  So many hours I spent out there talking.  My dad went about his work and listened earnestly, but I could carry on the conversation by myself anyway.  Once, I challenged him to give me a topic and see how long I could talk.  “Potato chips,” he said.  I talked for an hour.

One evening during my freshman year of high school, I pressed my bare feet against a cupboard in the shop, making a set of footprints in the sawdust.  Now, making sawdust footprints has become a tradition, and every time before I go back to school, I leave my dad a couple so he can remember our shop talks even while I am away.

My home is compiled of memories, but soon, I will not have claim over this home anymore.  Wedding invitations are waiting to be addressed, boxed up in the living room; my driftwood centerpieces are in a bucket in the shop; and my dress is hanging from the middle peg of a coat rack in my parents’ bedroom.  My fiancé and I are anxiously counting down the days until we will have the privilege of creating a home of our own. 

I suppose I always knew that someday I would have to leave 7050 Old Guide Road, making it a place I go to on family vacations.  But my memories will still be there, waiting for me to push open the front door and smell the sweet aroma of a place I once called home.

Maybe

There are several books on my bookshelf simply waiting to be discovered: The Duet, Wuthering Heights, and a plethora of James Calvin Schaap’s.  I begin reading back covers, flipping through pages, reading dedications.

When it comes to starting a new book, fears often creep into my mind.  What if I don’t like this book?  What if it’s boring?  What if it’s sad?  The what-ifs flood my mind and make it difficult to choose.  Then, out of the corner of my eye, a well-loved book comes into view.  

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.

I have read this book before – twice in fact – and feel rather guilty considering taking it for a third adventure.  But this book is safe.  These characters are already my close friends.  We have laughed together, loved together, and shared the intimacy of tears together.  I know that the second I slide that book off its home on the shelf, I won’t be able to put it back.

But that’s exactly what I did.  I slid.

Suddenly, I was transported to Britain during the aftermath of WWII.  My old friends were making me laugh, just as I knew they would.  I found myself trying to read faster because I knew I would enjoy what was right around the next page.  I couldn’t help but smile.

I began marking passages that hadn’t struck me before.  I even discovered a new word: muckraking.  And I was delighted to find that upon looking up its definition, another word could not have fit the situation more perfectly.

Maybe the authors of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society were right.  Maybe “there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers.”

Just maybe.