When we moved into our first house a month before our son
was born, the baby’s room was empty, except for the hideous blue wallpaper that
featured giant scary-looking clowns. My father and husband built a crib from a
kit. There were a handful of screws left
after the eight hours of assembly. This worried me a little.
We filled the room with shower gifts and family heirlooms;
an over sized stuffed Peter Rabbit, a dresser with a remarkable removable
changing mat on the top, a blue and white quilt made by my great-grandmother
Long and an oak rocking chair.
How our son’s things multiplied and changed the landscape of
the house!
Twenty-two years and two houses later, the baby is a man. He
no longer lives with us, and we are slowly reversing the process with his
possessions.
This summer we’re tackling the basement. We don’t need a playroom anymore, and it has
become a storage room. One room is now
my husband’s office. The carpeting, worn
from too many children running in and out, has been replaced. The basketball hoop that was right outside
the door is gone, new grass planted.
The noisy refrigerator that kept cold drinks for hot boys on
a summer’s day has been moved to the storage area. Where my husband had a desk
and a few books in this room holds a full-fledged office that bears no
resemblance to the crossroads it once was, the crossroads between lively,
dripping wet children and the bathroom.
With the pristine new carpet came paint, a brick red for the
brick wall and a sedate tan for the rest.
We moved his over sized chair to this peaceful retreat, part man cave,
part set of “Antiques Road Show.”
From the chair he has a view of the neighbor’s lake, the
occasional white-tailed deer and all the glorious native birds that come
calling.
Our son’s room upstairs remains much as it was, a repository
for Boy Scout things, flags of the world, a
closet full of silk-screened shirts from childhood activities. It is now a great place to keep the laundry.
Our son’s digs have evolved, from dormitory to the squalor
of a college basement apartment and now a “real” apartment. We keep teasing him
that he could use an air hockey table; it’s big and bulky and takes up a lot of
space in our basement. It would make a lovely dining room table for him.
He gathers. We cast
off. It’s all part of the process. My late mother was never as happy as when I
finally took the last of my things from their house. The final item that stayed with them until
they moved into retirement housing was my wedding dress. Mom behaved as if the dress was toxic waste
from a nuclear dump. She wanted the
space in the guest room closet where the giant box held my white lace
dress. Now it takes up space in my
closet.
Our son’s Legos, Lincoln Logs and metal trucks wait for him
in our basement. If I look closely, I
think I can see a little radioactive glow.
©
2012 The Raven Lunatic by Amy Abbott.
Amy Abbott is an Indiana writer with attitude. She likes to hear from readers at
amy@amyabbottwrites.com.
