Half my dad's back porch was taken up with firewood. He had chopped up a log house.
My old back yard is so expansive, so beautiful. I remember the corn growing in one spot, zucchini and rhubarb and cherry tomatoes in another, wild strawberries and flowers in another. Snapdragons and rosebushes and peonies and other flowers surrounding the house. My sunflowers, which I planted in a styrofoam cup in Sunday School and transferred to the yard. For years they grew and multiplied until they threatened to take over the corn.
The yard is a hill that my dad built into sections separated by big logs. He put in stairs with concrete and logs. There was a sandbox and some beehives up top. My brother's Tonka trucks might still be rusting away up there.
The zucchini grew so big that my dad made jack-o-lanterns out of them in October. It always, always snowed on Halloween and Spring Break, but never on Christmas.
In 1997, I was working at King Soopers and I could not wait to get out of there. I'd dropped out of Red Rocks Community College, I'd just made checker and my paychecks were getting nicer. I was talking to a girl who worked in the photo section, Carly, about taking off to Seattle. I was high on Tom Robbins then. I'd romanticized the mansion hiding in blackberry brambles. Every time it rained, I pretended I was there. Carly had a crush on a guy who lived there. He was in the Army. I was ready to pack our little shit cars and go. I had a little crush on Carly. She had super long brown hair, doll eyes. I went to her place one night, in a bad area of Denver. We drank cheap wine from Mason jars and played dominoes. It's one of my favorite memories.
It was AOL back then. That's how I met Mister Aran. My mom was a falling-down drunk. The men parading in and out of the house were frightening. Mister Aran came to live with us that winter.
In April, we took the Grayhound bus to Los Angeles. I had about three hundred dollars, scraped together from my paychecks and family. My grandpa bought the bus tickets. We had no jobs and nowhere to live. For six weeks, we lived with Mister Aran's family. It was a difficult adjustment for me, family-wise, but I emailed my mom every day about California: the scent of the lemon tree, the intense green, the feeling of a palm tree trunk against my hand. It was all magical. It was years before I took palm trees for granted.
I never wanted to move back. Sometimes, I'd try to convince my family to move to California. If I had a lot of money, I'd have moved my grandparents out, but it would mean a hell of a lot of disposable income, because their medical benefits don't apply anywhere but in Colorado.
Since having The Bug, though, I feel differently. My dad's back yard looks enormous. I can imagine my son making snowmen out there, or running up and down the stairs with the dog or cat, like my brother and I used to do. In Colorado, we could own a house, easy, with that kind of yard and a park nearby. He'd wake in the gray fall mornings to the honking geese flying south, not the honking SUVs merging onto the 5 South. There would be far fewer freeways, less worry about crime. People are used to weather and drive slower.
It's goddamn cold. I'm used to the warm now. But, visiting my family, even as fucked up as they are, I felt like I would trade the weather for that yard.
***
It was a madhouse at LAX when we got back. Traffic was nuts because it was the Sunday after Thanksgiving. My inlaws took over Baby Patrol and as they chattered with Mister Aran I felt outside again. The Bug screamed all the way home. I snatched him up and jogged inside with him, leaving the others to take in my luggage. It was awhile before he cooled out. I fell asleep with him in the big reclining chair until early evening.
That night, we went to see Walk The Line and all I could see were flip-flops.
***
I feel better now. California is home. Missing Denver is just an extension of my fear for The Bug's safety. It's so much better for my family here. The drama in Colorado would eat me up and the opportunities for Mister Aran are slim.
Plus, it's damn cold. Fuck that.
***
nz gf c ccvvv7777n jjjjjjj mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm r nnnn
***
The Bug typed all that.
posted by Samus @ 2:01 PM
2 Comments:
I might be totally out of wack, but I thought Mr Aran made games.
I seem to remember that i stumbled upon your blog because of that.
Would he be able to do it at Colorado?
Security word: rwdge
You're right, and no, he wouldn't be able to work on games there. There are other things he could do, like teaching and illustrating, that he could do anywhere, but (1) It doesn't pay as much and (2) It isn't a good time in his career to do those things.
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home