earlycracklings

Early Cracklings Remembered

I remember our old house in Peniel. Or perhaps I should instead say that our old house holds the beginnings of my memories. For it�s not the house so much, but rather glimpses of the house mixed in with spatterings of my childhood that have stuck in my brain. Sheets plastered with old, yellowed school paste, cracked and peeling, revealing only the faintest glimpses of blurred images

You, telling a two-year-old me to pull my red corduroy pants up above my belly button while I ran up and down the hill that marked the end of our yard and the beginning of Rhonda�s. Me, complaining that they were too tight. The spanking I got for pushing them back down.
Me and Martha aged four, eating mulberries right off the tree from the bed of her uncle�s truck. The spanking I got for my purple-stained clothes.
You, saying �If you kids go into that pasture, I�ll give you a spanking you�ll never forget.� The spanking I never forgot

Me and Terrye, sitting on our beds and pulling, pulling, pulling the strings of our Chatty Babies at Christmas; you and Daddy coming in and telling us that it was time to put the dolls up and get to bed; the two of us following your wagging finger with our eyes. I watched your hands a great deal when I was small.
    Me and Brad, bouncing on the white vinyl couch and watching Mighty Mouse; our displeasure when the newsman interrupted. Bouncing. Waiting for Superman to come on. Standing on our heads. Waiting. The newsman showing all the people crying.
    Was it boredom or uneasiness that finally drove us next door to find you? You and May were crying too, and talking about the TRAGEDY. For you, it was the death of a President in Dallas�so close to home. For me, the memory is of lost cartoons, anger, and confused fear.
    Me, on a hot summer night, lying at the foot end of my bed to catch the faint breeze from the window; the small, metal fan blades whirring and rattling the bars of their tiny cage there on the headboard, protesting their utter uselessness against the heat.

Finally, you and Daddy, sitting on the low concrete porch in the green and red metal lawn chairs, carefully explaining to three unhappy children why we would have to give up this place we loved, our friends and neighbors, the tall, shining, blond knight, Johnny, who lived across the street.
�See this crack in the porch?� Daddy asked. �See how it goes all the way up these bricks?� he continued, pointing to the small crack that ran across the porch and up into the off-white brick fa�ade of the house front. �Well, pretty soon, that crack is going to go all the way up, across the roof, and down the back. And then, the whole house is going to fall apart. Now we don�t want to be here when that happens, do we?�
�Noooooooo� three awed and thoroughly convinced children gravely chorused, as you smirked and chuckled behind your hand. Did anyone else see what I saw? I've never asked them, but I don�t really think so. But then, I always noticed your hands when I was small.

I have other memories of that house. Saying goodbye to Judy on Christmas, the police bringing Brad home, the sting of chinaberries, and the smell of Brylcream. The birds on the living room wallpaper and the swirls on the ceiling in the den. The chicken pox, the Mickey Mouse, the wax owl, and the blackboard on the closet door of Brad�s room.
I went back there recently. Mr. and Mrs. McGuire�Kathy�s parents, you remember�were glad to let me look, to come in and see this place that holds so much of my childhood hostage. The rooms were of course smaller than I remembered. The wallpaper birds were gone, as were the swirls and the blackboard. Of course. Brad�s room holds the McGuire's clothes dryer. We never had one there, only a clothesline in the backyard.
The crack was there. It still runs across the porch and up the bricks. It never did manage to split the house in half. What it eventually did to my trust is incalculable. In my mind�s eye, I still see the smirk behind your hand.

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