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Posts tagged ‘Nostalgia’

Disturbed

While you slept,
I came in by the window.
While you slept,
I used that ladder there.
Dangerous thing, a ladder.
Nowadays you can’t
be too careful.

When I was a child,
we slept with unlocked doors.
When I was a child,
we left the windows open
and let the cool evening breezes
brush over us and smooth
our days into dreams in slumber.

In Daddy’s Day – Uncle Joe and the Nun

Last week, my Dad threatened promised to tell us some stories from his youth, ostensibly in an effort to help other people raise better kids than his.  I sure hope that works out for everyone.

In case you missed it, here is a defense disclaimer comment my dad wrote about his post last week:

This blog stuff is Michelle’s thing and I didn’t really want to do any commenting, but did you guys hear what Michelle wrote? She acts like she didn’t ask me to write this junk down. She did so. continue reading…

In Daddy’s Day – A Brief Introduction

Back in September, I was telling my parents how I found a little boy on the side of the road, and my Dad immediately said, “Well, your mother has lost you girls before.  More than once.”  There was more to that conversation, but I don’t really remember it, because I was pretty much focused on how I found a kid on the side of the road.  Apparently, I asked my Dad to write down some of those stories.  He did it, so I figure I must have, like numerous other things I’ve done in my life that I can’t remember.  (Only this turned out to be to my benefit.  I really should start paying more attention.)  Anyway, it was a delightful surprise for me, and I’m really excited to introduce to you my very first Guest Blogger – my Dad, Tom.

When our oldest daughter Michelle was over the other night, her mother and I began to recount, as old people do, stories of her and her sister’s misspent youth.  The particular story being rehashed was about the time, while on a Christmas shopping trip, her mother lost her younger sister, Rebecca, at the Regency Mall in Richmond.  After a lively discussion of all the pertinent facts and details, Michelle suggested that I write the story down and give it to her; whereupon her mother immediately objected.  She said that if I did, Michelle would put that stuff on the internet and that the whole world would have access to our closet and all the private stuff that’s in it.  Jacque further reasoned that it wouldn’t stop there, that there were other stories that could be told, of which many were true, and that she, herself, had a government job that she had worked very hard to get and that it had a security clearance that needed to be maintained if she were going to be allowed to keep that good job. continue reading…

Nannie’s House

Funny how my thoughts somehow
drew themselves to her bathroom.

It seems a place I once read about,
its memory is so far distant,
and not the place whose particulars
I contemplated often at that time.

I can actually see the coldness
I felt there in winter,
through the floor,
in the lukewarm bath water,
resting on that cold porcelain sink;
It was all so old, even then.

And there was always the crocheted frog,
on his lily pad in yarn water
that covered the lid of the toilet.

But I never think of it these days…

A wonder,
since in this one moment of remembrance,
it bursts forth and embodies that whole place,
the entire memory of my existence there.

Then suddenly I realize the
presence of all those rooms,
and the attic where we sometimes played,
and I know their individual potential
for recalling my childhood are great.

I see the vagueness of a porch
with jars and cans and plants.

I know the kitchen,
and the wood stove we
dressed in front of

in the cold morning,
the table we made cookies on,
her freezer against the back wall,
and the counter where I played my
new radio the day after Christmas.

Then the living room,
where two chairs sit and wait,
and granddaddy longlegs crawl the wall;
in the floor is a box fan to lay in front of
on a long summer day;
and there’s a soft and saggy couch
just right for staying up all night to watch tv.

Here’s the room I would stay in
where I lie awake,
and thought and dreamed,
and saw the sun rise the next morning.

There’s Grandpop’s doorway and
I can see his spirit facing it,
sitting on the side of the bed,
smoking cigarettes and just as drunk
as his body was when it lived there.

At the end of the hall I find her room
where she and Becca slept when we stayed;
inside is the dresser with her girdles in
the top drawer, those earrings, Wind Song,
and I borrow her cross necklace to
wear to church in the morning.