Lent Day 28 - 618

There are two people on Earth left who know what went down at 618 Kanuga Drive. Sure, other people have snippets of the picture. But only two people experienced the full gamut, day in and day out. The big blue house on the corner. It stood out from the neighborhood around it. It was large with a bright color, which dulled over time. Poetic. Enormous trees and magnificent hedges surrounded it. A dozen rooms. Large front and back yards. It was a place of wonder. I lived a third of my life there full time, and then spent stretches there at other times. It doesn’t exist any more - at least not in the form that I was familiar with. When my mom moved, the people who bought it did major renovations to it. Unrecognizable now. I haven’t been back since our family departed. It isn’t the same place any more. 

I have so many mixed feelings about that house. It was where I made some tremendous memories. At other times, it was a house of horrors. The strange thing is that in my memories, those two extremes exist overlapped in my mind - making me smile and cringe as I walk through each room. There was our mint green living room. The walls covered with dozens of knick-knacks and inspirational pieces my mom had found. The beautiful hardwood floors that for years had been covered with disgusting dark teal carpet until my parents decided to rip it up on what seemed like a whim. Hundreds of books on massive bookshelves. A non-working fireplace. Glass shelves and glass table that I hated to clean. There were steamy summer days where I flopped onto the couch, listening to Keith Green and David Meece albums on the ancient turntable system, eating Jello Pudding Pops and trying desperately not to melt. Hours spent practicing the piano, my little gray cat sprawled across the wood, purring happily as I worked through a new Beethoven piece. Watching helplessly at the violent scene taking place in front of me as my brother felt the full force of my father’s anger. 

The dining room kept the mint green paint job. It housed a huge chunky wooden table that my father had relocated from the Post Office when it was replaced there. The room morphed over the years, gaining a microwave and a dart board, losing a wall unit AC that didn’t work. The desk moved around depending on what formation my mom had decided on. There were many large dinners. We hosted guests multiple times a year - near family, extended family, friends from church and school. Those were happy times, largely because everybody was on their best behavior. There were no explosions or arguments during those meals - at least most of the time. My mother would present the best meals she could conjure up: usually lasagna or stuffed shells, maybe spaghetti. We have not a shred of Italian in us, but that was her go-to food for guests. I picked up on that trait. We often were the site of Thanksgiving dinner. A massive (overcooked) turkey, loads of sides, and a cornucopia of desserts. Not a literal cornucopia - I feel that needs mentioned with the Thanksgiving angle. Dad peeling mountains of potatoes for a work picnic or apples for holiday pies. I would sit at the table, snitching spirals of apple peel as he worked. But there were countless stressful dinners at that table too. Ones where it was just the four or five of us. Dad glowering at the end of the table, eating quickly and leaving. Fights over how much dinner needed to be eaten. Dad getting irrationally angry at my brother for his choice of condiments for his potato or Italian breaded pork chops - my least favorite meal ever. I was too busy trying to not gag at that meal to care what my brother dipped his in. My sister sitting in the dark by herself because she refused to eat her veggies or say how to pronounce milk in Spanish and couldn’t leave. 

The kitchen sported butt-ugly dark green linoleum. An ancient massive stove with burners, griddle, double ovens. Huge fridge and separate big freezer - a huge chest one at first, then a standup one. We never sat in the kitchen, even though there was a table and chairs. Normally the table was covered by food and kitchen tools. There were cabinets everywhere, stuffed with food and containers, cups and medication, food and mystery items that I never understood. My mom spent many days with us, baking and cooking. When she was younger, she would undertake massive baking assignments. Sugar cookies for each child in my class, designed to look like each student. Dozens of different types of bread. Pastries, cookies, and pies for festivals at school. Christmas gifts of cookies, jelly, bread, candies - all homemade. The ambition fell off as she got older and more physically challenged. My mom peeling the mangos my dad couldn't touch, but loved to eat. Many delicious memories were forged there. Some strange ones were also created there. The mystery plastic containers in the fridge or freezer. It could be Cool Whip, but it could also be a dead bird. Margarine? Maybe it is soup. There also may have been more negative experiences in that room than any other. The thick eighteen inch ruler that was used on our bottoms (and legs) lived on the top of the refrigerator - a constant reminder of the pain of stepping out of line. That cold linoleum beneath me as I flailed in misery, wrestling with a crushing panic attack caused by trying to wrap my mind around something that was too big for me. Being told that I shouldn’t be afraid, and that I should get off the floor. Standing helplessly (again) as my brother and father warred (again) by the back door. Fists clenched and faces twisted in rage. A final break in a relationship that had never been healthy.

The spacious backyard led out to the expansive separated garage. A massive mango tree, a large grapefruit tree. Tons of dog poop thanks to the dogs who always lived outside. A crooked basketball hoop jutting up out of the uneven and broken piecemeal concrete patio. Hours and hours of basketball games with my brother - trying to come up with places to shoot as our skills grew. The crooked bricks causing me to twist my ankle more times than I can remember. The hole in the yard where I blew out my knee. The pipe that my brother slammed onto my toe. The pail of water where cane toads would hide out to avoid our predatory husky. The hilariously small kiddie pool that one of us barely fit in, let alone three of us. My dad grilling over his tiny Weber grill. The garage housed the laundry equipment. Later it also became a game area with pool and ping-pong tables. A place to hide out to avoid the house and whatever conflict was brewing. 

The mental journey through every room brings to mind happy and sad memories.  How can one place be the source of such a mixed bag of experiences? Laughter. Tears. Celebration. Misery. I couldn’t wait to leave, but didn’t want to go. As time goes on, I have harder time remembering things accurately. Not the details, mind you. I can remember the specific items fairly well. Where things were located. What things looked like. It is more that I have to work harder to remember the good memories, the safety I felt, the love that lived there. The negative memories, the bruises physical and emotional - those loom larger now. The more removed I am from that environment, the more I recognize how abnormal and unhealthy the place was. But it saddens me that so many of the pleasant times have been pushed out of my mind. There were some wonderful times. Special celebrations for New Year’s bowl games and the Super Bowl. Game night around the card table with everyone fighting with a surprising competitive nature at Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly, Scattergories, Pictionary. Piling into the television room to take advantage of the one working AC unit on a blazing South Florida night. Playing football with my brother out on the sidewalk running along our block, using the trees, bushes, stairs, and hedges as receivers. Playing My Little Pony with my sister in the playroom (Lemon Drop was my favorite). My dad chucking cups of water out of the upstairs bathroom onto one of us, who was sitting on the top of the jungle gym. But the darkness seeps into everything, leeching out the color. Flattening the positive notes. Things look different now. My perspective has shifted. 618 doesn’t hold quite the same wonder any more.