The house was larger than most, I think you might have termed it a manor. The living room alone sported three full sized couches, with matching marble end and coffee tables. There was a cozy sitting area with wing-backed armchairs in front of the double fireplace. Given all this furniture, there was still ample space left in the room for guests to mill about and chit-chat with cocktail in hand or dance if the mood for the soiree was right. Above one sofa hung a mammoth ornate gold-filigreed mirror with two grotesquely chubby golden cherubs peering down. It was rather ‘over-the-top’ in my estimation and kind of creepy but most probably that came from the fact that this room had been strictly ‘verboten’ for most of my 16 years.
I walked into the house and threw the lights on in the equally spacious kitchen … it was well before my curfew and must have been around 11:30 p.m. or so. The house seemed quiet, only the humming of the matching copper toned refrigerator and freezer standing on the far wall could be heard. I assumed my parents had retired, but that was a guess as their room was all the way at the other end of the house. My mind drifted as I glanced about the room… I remembered the time I had tried to lunge our Dalmatian, Huckleberry, on a 8 foot leash in the center of this room, “Faster, faster you stupid bastard”, I ordered as he obligingly circled around me. I must have been 4 or 5 years old and my mother who was standing at the stove cooking was quite surprised at the epithet rolling off my tongue with such accuracy and force. I smiled; most of my early life and sense of being had developed in this room.
I had been gone all day with my boyfriend of the time. Setting my purse down, I noticed my neon barb fish darting round and round murky water in their small tank. “I should have cleaned it yesterday”, I thought. But, you know a teenager’s life on the weekend is consumed with a sort of a mental mantra, “people to see, places to go….” With a sense of responsibility toward the care of living creatures, I seized the moment and set about the task of cleaning the fish tank.
Now there was a method. I got out the industrial sized gallon pickle jar and set it on the counter next to the sink. I would have to spoon just enough of the murky fish tank water into it so that the fishies could be temporarily housed while I cleaned the tank. The metal ladle made a happy tinging sound on the mouth of the jar every time I added a ladleful of water to it. About ten ladlefuls later, the jar was three quarters full. Then came the delicate step of transferring the barbs from the tank to the jar. Oh they never wanted to be caught and netting them was quite the challenge even in the small tank. “Come here you…”, I coaxed as if they could hear me. One, two, three…done.
Next, I had to pour the water from the tank through a strainer so the gravel would not go down the disposal and busily I sprayed the gravel and tank with hot water full blast in the sink to loosen the algae and debris. I could hear the enormous hot water tank in the basement clinking away replenishing itself. I set the clean tank back on the counter and was about to put the gravel back in when all three barbs one after another, as if performing some rehearsed number, jumped out of the pickle jar landing in the sink. I stood shocked staring at my flip-flopping friends flip and flop right down the disposal drain. I reached down the drain, and each time I felt one flip-flop against my hand, I would jerk my hand out, shudder and the tiniest of screams would escape my mouth. Stereotypical of girls, I couldn’t seem to overcome the dread of handling fish out of water. This went on for about four or five more attempts to retrieve the poor dears. Suddenly the door to the kitchen opened and in came my dad clad in his traditional sleeping attire, striped pajama pants and a white-strapped tee shirt. “My hero”, my thoughts instantly relaxed. You see, there wasn’t anything my dad couldn’t do.
“What’s going on?” he asked calmly as he walked over to the sink and peered into it.
“I am cleaning the tank and my fish jumped out of the jar and they are in the disposal – can you help me?”
“Yeah, I’ll help you”, he matter-of-factly replied.
And with that, he calmly reached passed me, flipped on the disposal switch and in an instant the disposal spun to life erating the lives within. So shocked was I that I felt my hair stand on end. The charged energy in the air formed a silent but powerful scream, which flew into my mouth and landed hard in my stomach.
“There. You’re done. Now, go to bed”, was all that he said to me and he turned and left the kitchen. We never spoke of the incident; somehow I knew it would have been a futile endeavor.
I walked into the house and threw the lights on in the equally spacious kitchen … it was well before my curfew and must have been around 11:30 p.m. or so. The house seemed quiet, only the humming of the matching copper toned refrigerator and freezer standing on the far wall could be heard. I assumed my parents had retired, but that was a guess as their room was all the way at the other end of the house. My mind drifted as I glanced about the room… I remembered the time I had tried to lunge our Dalmatian, Huckleberry, on a 8 foot leash in the center of this room, “Faster, faster you stupid bastard”, I ordered as he obligingly circled around me. I must have been 4 or 5 years old and my mother who was standing at the stove cooking was quite surprised at the epithet rolling off my tongue with such accuracy and force. I smiled; most of my early life and sense of being had developed in this room.
I had been gone all day with my boyfriend of the time. Setting my purse down, I noticed my neon barb fish darting round and round murky water in their small tank. “I should have cleaned it yesterday”, I thought. But, you know a teenager’s life on the weekend is consumed with a sort of a mental mantra, “people to see, places to go….” With a sense of responsibility toward the care of living creatures, I seized the moment and set about the task of cleaning the fish tank.
Now there was a method. I got out the industrial sized gallon pickle jar and set it on the counter next to the sink. I would have to spoon just enough of the murky fish tank water into it so that the fishies could be temporarily housed while I cleaned the tank. The metal ladle made a happy tinging sound on the mouth of the jar every time I added a ladleful of water to it. About ten ladlefuls later, the jar was three quarters full. Then came the delicate step of transferring the barbs from the tank to the jar. Oh they never wanted to be caught and netting them was quite the challenge even in the small tank. “Come here you…”, I coaxed as if they could hear me. One, two, three…done.
Next, I had to pour the water from the tank through a strainer so the gravel would not go down the disposal and busily I sprayed the gravel and tank with hot water full blast in the sink to loosen the algae and debris. I could hear the enormous hot water tank in the basement clinking away replenishing itself. I set the clean tank back on the counter and was about to put the gravel back in when all three barbs one after another, as if performing some rehearsed number, jumped out of the pickle jar landing in the sink. I stood shocked staring at my flip-flopping friends flip and flop right down the disposal drain. I reached down the drain, and each time I felt one flip-flop against my hand, I would jerk my hand out, shudder and the tiniest of screams would escape my mouth. Stereotypical of girls, I couldn’t seem to overcome the dread of handling fish out of water. This went on for about four or five more attempts to retrieve the poor dears. Suddenly the door to the kitchen opened and in came my dad clad in his traditional sleeping attire, striped pajama pants and a white-strapped tee shirt. “My hero”, my thoughts instantly relaxed. You see, there wasn’t anything my dad couldn’t do.
“What’s going on?” he asked calmly as he walked over to the sink and peered into it.
“I am cleaning the tank and my fish jumped out of the jar and they are in the disposal – can you help me?”
“Yeah, I’ll help you”, he matter-of-factly replied.
And with that, he calmly reached passed me, flipped on the disposal switch and in an instant the disposal spun to life erating the lives within. So shocked was I that I felt my hair stand on end. The charged energy in the air formed a silent but powerful scream, which flew into my mouth and landed hard in my stomach.
“There. You’re done. Now, go to bed”, was all that he said to me and he turned and left the kitchen. We never spoke of the incident; somehow I knew it would have been a futile endeavor.
2 comments:
Oh, my GOSH! What is Zach doing sitting in that little dress with a cat?????? Its uncanny!!!!!
Kathy B
Is that house still standing? We should "road trip" to St. Louis to see it and visit with Dawn Phillips!
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