Another Summer Rerun - "Frozen Memories"
Posted by Pinhole at 8/17/2007 3:35 PM 
Categories: Transitions, Friends, Family, Tribute, Humor, Thoughts
Categories: Transitions, Friends, Family, Tribute, Humor, Thoughts
I called them Uncle Pat and Shorty. He wasn't really my uncle, but Mr. Woodburn sounded so formal and distant, and adopting the familial reference carried a tone of respect that felt much more comfortable than just "Pat".
To the best of my knowledge I never referred to his wife as my aunt. It wasn't that she didn't seem like family, I simply felt that a seven year old boy calling a grown woman Shorty, in her own home, was pushing my luck just about far enough.
Our family visited the Woodburn's often. For my brother and me this was both an adventure and an exercise in tradition.
Soon after passing through the front door, on each visit Uncle Pat would escort us down the back stairs, into the basement and back to the freezer, where we were promptly treated to an Eskimo Pie®. This was truly a treat considering, at home, we didn't even have a basement, much less a freezer.
Now we were faced with a choice. Our ice cream could be eaten in one of two rooms: the kitchen, fully equipped with table and chairs, cabinets (built by my father), and the mindless chatter of adult conversation; or, completely undisturbed in the serenity of the TV room. Other rooms were off limits - a cautionary measure due to ice cream's propensity for melting, exponentially, the younger the person carrying the stick. If a few drops missed one of the fourteen cuffs in our pant legs, no carpet would be ruined. Besides serving as ice cream receptacles, my father's theory behind these denim folds was that they allowed us room to grow into our jeans, thus avoiding buying new pants every 3 months. He held fast to this theory even though the evidence showed most of our jeans were worn beyond repair before we had emptied the first cuff.
In the TV room we could indulge ourselves in a rousing game of darts, marbles, or checkers, or enjoy the stimulating banter between Wilbur and Mr. Ed on the black and white television. A few feet from the talking horse sat another link to the happenings beyond our own small world: a short wave radio. A hobby not totally unrelated to Uncle Pat's livelihood as a lineman/foreman for the local power and light company. This piece of equipment was more fascinating to my brother than to me only because I had no idea what it was. These reasons alone would have been sufficient to opt for the TV Room. The real reason for me, however, was the journey to the far end of the house.
To reach our destination, we passed through the formal dining room, down the hallway and past the bathroom. There was now only one room separating us from our evening of bliss.
It was a small dark room with a single bed and wood grained wallpaper. Trophies, banners and ribbons adorned the walls. This was the home of their imaginary son. On each of our frequent visits they held fast to the same story; their son was away in some mythical place called college. Our parents played along with this tale, and since in all other respects they seemed to be normal, well adjusted, caring people, I chose to ignore this minor flaw in their characters. Besides, they had invested so much time and effort into the atmosphere of the room it seemed a shame to destroy the illusion.
Within a couple of hours, once my brother and I had determined the darts champion and Wilbur and Mr. Ed had long since settled their differences, our mother would inform us it was time to leave. This announcement always brought a few jeers from the gaming room, but after some obligatory grumbling we conceded further tournaments could be held the next week.
My shock was measurable, in decibels, when I learned there would be no next week. Oh, school would still be there, as would church and all the other chains of childhood. But, my respite from these ritual punishments was gone. Uncle Pat had been transferred.
We would now be forced to travel over 40 miles to see our friends; in modern times a relatively short distance, a long and arduous journey by Conestoga. As a small boy in my father’s ancient '59 Oldsmobile the difference seemed slight. Due to the logistical complications, more often than not the extra time just wasn't available to make the trip. Over the next few years the exchanges between our families became less and less frequent.
Within months, I learned my parents were purchasing the stack of 2x4's and pink clapboards that the Woodburn's had once called home. I should have been delighted at the prospect of actually living in the shrine, which previously had allowed me only a temporary refuge from homework, cleaning my room, and the mutant child-eaters living behind my toy box. But this move sent another signal that couldn't be avoided any longer...
Uncle Pat and Shorty weren't moving back.
Once I came to grips with this realization, I was more prepared to make the move. Nevertheless, I still felt some uneasiness about the whole situation. The rituals involved with our earlier visits had made me feel as though we were moving into a cathedral. We might as well have been redecorating the Vatican for our own personal use.
The move complete, and my conscience finally at peace, I began to discover things about the house I had never known. The lights in most of the rooms turned on and off with strange push-button switches. The huge shelf in the basement, with the center divider, was actually a ping-pong table. And there was a crawlspace in the furnace room that, in the darkness, seemed endless. I was sure this passageway had been part of an Underground Railroad system, which led to the Canadian wilderness. As a child, I never had the courage to venture into the darkness to verify my theory. I now realize it must have ended considerably short of my original estimate; probably nearer Wisconsin. I still haven't checked it out.
Aside from the mystery of our new surroundings, and the blasphemous nature of calling it ours, it also seemed large and cumbersome. Our new home didn't fit.
My father's jean theory finally found purpose. With time we grew into it. In what seemed like no time at all, it became comfortable and familiar. In fact, just when it began to feel a little snug, my brother left home to join the Woodburn's imaginary offspring. This blessing brought a welcome relief to both my parents and me, though, through a sense of parental obligation they felt forced to feign a sense of loss.
With my parole from high school, and later with my father's passing, our home once again took on a spacious and ominous tone. Fortunately, my mother's joy of life quickly quelled these emotions, and everything returned to normal, with one minor exception. Regardless of how comfortable and loving the atmosphere, I realized I was again a visitor.
Returning briefly one Christmas to install a ceiling fan for Mom, I experienced a sudden flash of introspection and quickly identified yet another of many facets to my personality; an inbred fear of electricity. I knew I would require professional help, but my immediate need was for an electrician. Uncle Pat battled the elements, the distance, and probably Shorty, to bail me out of my dilemma.
Ceiling fan securely in position, along with my ego, the four of us eased around the kitchen table to relax and indulge in what I had attempted to avoid my entire life; some adult conversation. We talked of old times, expressed our regrets at not seeing one another more often, and slowly sipped our coffee. Embarrassed at not having some homemade delicacy on hand, my mother made a hurried round-trip to the basement freezer. When she returned we were each presented with an ice cream bar to compliment our drink.
Uncle Pat is visiting my father now, and Mom and Shorty get together whenever weather and their schedules permit. My brother and I must be satisfied with frequent exchanges between ourselves as we have, quite inadvertently, settled our families in the same city half a continent away.
Time marches on and it seems the only constant in our lives is change.
Through it all, I've strived to remember the importance of truth, honor, friendship, and of course, an occasional Eskimo Pie®.
Pinhole's Shop
Those are good and important memories, Pinhole. They bring back many of my own. I hope we never forget.
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Thanks Montucky. I'll probably still remember this stuff even when I've forgotten my own name. I'm not sure how accurate the memories will be, but I'm sure that at least I'll enjoy them.
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What a charming and sweet memory. These are the things that have once kept us grounded and left us with something wonderful to hold on to.
Most of the people who added that depth of adult to child memories in my life have either winged their way out of this dimension and into another or have some how lost their way to the attic. The worse part of dementia is they don't have all those memories to hold on to.
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Thanks Ms. Zola. Maybe you are destined to be keeper of the memories, for those who have lost theirs. I'm sure you'll do a fine job.
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Very well-told tale, Pinhole. I don't think I caught this one before, but I'm glad I saw it this time around.
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Thanks, Wolf. Maybe I shouldn't feel quite so guilty about reposting some of the stuff that was lost from WU. It feels like I'm being lazy, but I'd kind of like to have them where I could link reliably if need be.
Thanks again.
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lovely story, I really enjoyed it and the way you told it was perfect. I remember my great grandmother having a freeze on the back porch. No eskimo pies, only ice cold diet dr. pepper. I hated the stuff, but iced like that, it was pretty good!
(I only get 3000 characters on here!?)
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Anything tastes better from a freezer. Thanks for visiting!
And how many characters do you need!? If 3000 isn't enough, I'll see what I can do.
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