Memories, and I'd rather be up there with the red-tail. Shares and sales still needed.

Photo copyright Aji, 2018; all rights reserved.

Days like this, I wish I were up there with her.

My father would've been 94 today. This day (like all the other such markers) always flings me back to a childhood nobody wants to claim, and I spend the day trying to crawl back out of that lonely child's skin. But I had a secondary throwback this morning, one whose force took me by surprise, and whose significance had never really hit me until now. 

Among the items we received from the registry were dishes to replace those consigned to the RV's destruction (thanks, Sis). I had unpacked the plates, but between all the health problems and the presence of a few oddball bowls and our to-go mugs for coffee, I hadn't really needed the other items, particularly, and I left the heavy box in the pantry. I can't lift more than 5 pounds yet, so that means dragging stuff around only when necessary. I did that this morning, and when I opened the boxes, the nested layers that protected each item threw me back, full force, to age six. It was January; we had just moved, and were living in this miserable little shack, bedrooms closed to cold and vermin, our entire lives taking place between the walls of front room, kitchen, and bathroom. We had nothing, including dishes. There was a department store of sorts in this dinky town, a regional precursor to the K-Marts and Meijer's and whatever. They sold those awful early-generation melamine sets, the kind that felt like melted plastic, sold in these boxes the size and shape of a small suitcase, with all the nesting bits of cardboard attached inside to hold the plates and cups and bowls. And eventually, my parents saved up enough to get one those sets. It was ugly as sin, some awful burnt-orangey-brown and olive green, but it was there, and it was cheap, and that was what mattered.

And the box became my toy. I think the only thing I had by way of toys at the time might have been my stuffed koala and my Raggedy Ann and Andy. Not much for a six-year-old with a wild imagination who read everything she could get her hands on and knew there was a big wide world of stuff out there (stuff her classmates had, of course). So I took the box, and propped the lid open, and turned the nesting bits of cardboard into . . . rooms. And that became my dollhouse. My only other toy. I took it with me when we moved again, this time to a slightly less tiny and only slightly less vermin-infested house. And the flood of memories — of cold January nights and sleeping on the floor and an ancient space heater with the coils dangerously exposed and an injury to my leg with the flaming pain of the bandage ripped off the back of my thigh — all these things swamped me like a tidal wave, the colors, the sounds, the smells of poverty, the feel of the cardboard, all of it. And my body isn't as strong now as it was just three months ago, and a wave like that can break me now, and I can't let it.

So now that I've written the memories of poverty (at least those particular ones) out of my system, the rest is cut and paste, because I can't think about any of it anymore right now, not my past or my family or any of it. We have to take She-Wolf to the vet tomorrow, and I have a bunch of other obligations to take care of tomorrow, and I have to keep going until we're all safe across the board. So here's the rest, and then I'm probably out for the night:

So we still need all the shares and all the sales we can drum up right now, and will for quite a while. There'll be no new work on the house for some time yet, obviously. BTW, Wings has new pieces in the works, items I will likely be posting all this week, so keep checking back. Here are the links; please continue to share them consistently: 

• Tonight's post elsewhere (speaking of humble homes);
• A way to buy me coffee (which actually goes to She-Wolf's & my medical bills);
• Wings's direct PayPal link;
• Wings's site, for sales;
• Wayfair gift cards, to replenish all the furnishings that the RV has destroyed in one way or another.
• Partial registry #1, from Bed, Bath and Beyond. There are new kitchen-y things on it now, stuff that I didn't realize we'd need to replace (either because the RV ruined it or because we gave it away when we had to downsize).
• Partial registry #2, from Wayfair. There are some things left on both registries that I thought by now I might be able just to buy outright, but medical bills (mine and She-Wolf's both) have to come first.

I am no more functional than I was a few days ago — less, in fact, although we can't pin down why. I mean, we know it's all part of whatever happened to me in November; it's just that no one can figure out what that is, much less how to fix it. It makes me feel old and decrepit, especially given that I can't take 20 steps without getting short of breath, and I still can't lift or carry anything, which means I'm utterly useless around here. I'm using a cane routinely now when we run errands, and sometimes I just have to stop and sit, because I just can't stand upright another minute. It's profoundly maddening. Still, it's a gift to wake up each morning, even when the wind chills are teens or below; on mornings like this, you get glitter.  Thanks, everybody, from both of us, for everything. 



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2018; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.