I am me

The woodburning stove has come and gone. The original intention when I first saw that steel firebox was to set it up as some back patio curio. Eventually, we would enclose the space with large windows so as to have a tea room/greenhouse in the winter. The intention that came to be, however, was something else.

It all started with a digital advertisement and the word “Free.” From the pictures online, I examined the stove and thought well enough to go to some stranger’s house and lug this hunk of metal to my home. My initial excitement was followed by curiosity, so I lit a fire to get a sense of how this thing worked. As it turned out, not so well. I fiddled with the baffels and checked the flue collar and so on to give the smoke a direction other than out. I guess that’s why this thing was free. I had nothing more than a metal case that smothered the fire within. And so this thing sat and sat.

Eventually, and for a day, the stove found a purpose. And it was a grey day where the sun is somewhere up there until the clouds that make up the sky grow dark until all is dark save the haze of rain that halos the street lights. And I remember the stillness of that day as I lit a fire in the stove with some wood from one of those projects I sometimes find myself in. And with the stove stoked and piping hot, I proceeded to pitch the artwork that used to hang on the walls of my house into the fire. And the once yellow flames burned blue and green and darker until what choked out of that stove was a syrupy smoke that clung throughout as if to life.

I knew this would happen to some degree, that I would have nothing more than a smothered fire and the smog. But I did it anyway, I think, because I knew I’d be parting with this stove at some point. And I didn’t want those ashes to touch my yard — strange, I know. I didn’t want the remains to linger in my world, which is anywhere I choose to exist: the fields, the mountains, the city — anyplace or anywhere. If I could somehow send these works into space, that distance would still not be enough. Burning them was the only option as if I was trying to sever or sanctify some connection through what this artwork represents.

And yet, despite the heat, there was more smoke than expected. And the smoke didn’t rise. Instead, it clung to the ground as if to seed itself and continue on. And maybe this sacrifice wasn’t so much as refused by god as accepted by the devil — I don’t know if I believe that, but it is fun to ponder such things. And sometimes, it’s not.

My mother gave me those paintings. And they’ve followed from place to place until here: I’ve come to see them as the remnants of some shriveled tentacle that connected us — myself and my mother, that is. But it’s strange getting older and looking back from this adult perspective. And getting older with this constant reflection is traumatizing in a way because I often say, “I am now the age my mother was when I was…” It’s a hell of a perspective in that those weird memories now have the weight of severity and I can call those past situations what they are. And I relive other things that I’m sure she figured I was too young to remember or have nothing to do with her. In truth, it wasn’t only her, not even by a long shot. I still remember the names as if reading a list only for myself. It’s a long list that even has my name.

But there is one thing I often think about, which I know I will never have an answer to. It doesn’t stop me from wondering, though. And so a perpetual question: “What happened? What did I block from my memory that made me so terrified of my bedroom as a child that I would choose to sleep anywhere but in my bedroom?” I’d sleep on the couch or on the floor or behind the couch and on the floor. And one of the safest places for me to sleep was not upstairs in my bedroom, which was adjacent to my parents’ bedroom. Instead, I chose to sleep downstairs and in the hallway with my brother’s door at my head and my sister’s door to my left. There was a time that plot of floor close to my siblings was the safest place in the house. And I slept against their closed doors for a while until it was time to move on.

I don’t know what it was exactly that I experienced at such a tiny age that made me terrified of my bedroom when night came. But whatever it was still haunts me. Even now, if I lay in a bed and the perspective of the door is down and to the left of my feet like it was in childhood, my anxiety spikes. Even now, I become terrified. Even now, as an adult, those living shadows…

But because of my progress, it occurred to me that I should visit the past in order to gain another perspective. Closure, maybe? But to do so, I’d have to work backwards through the different houses and cities and states. And going backward is nothing but a review of immense pain until settling on that childhood home.

And I’d be in front of that house with the long look of silence from the street. Is it really progress to go backwards, I’d think. And in that moment, a car would make the turn but pause before entering the driveway. And the car window would roll down and a woman would be direct in her suspicion: “Excuse me, can I help you?”

And I’d apologize and say that I was just revisiting child-hood memories, that I grew up in that home. And I’d remark about how much everything has changed, about how that major thoroughfare used to be a dirt road, and about how all those houses used to be nothing but forrest and bike paths. And I’d tell her about where the trees used to be on the property and about where the concrete pad in the back yard came from, if it’s still there, and about why that pad is circumscribed with another four inches of concrete padding around the exterior. I’d tell her about the juniper tree in the back and why those limbs on the bottom are shorn off on one side, and that it was my doing in trying to make a bow and arrow. And those strange bumps in the side yard were from the bike jumps. And about how that large pine tree next to the garage has some planking on the high branches because of a half attempted tree fort, and those weird blocks of wood that were nailed into the tree where supposed to be handholds. And I’d tell her about the interior of the house, about the layout and ask if there is still that boot print against the vaulted ceiling in the living room on the upper floor, of if that was painted over. Maybe the thick beam of rough hewn wood still separates the dining room from the living room. And I’d tell her about how when the home was sold, that the wood-burning metal stove in the downstairs wasn’t to code, and that’s why there is a chimney flue to nowhere if it is still visible from inside the garage. And I’d go on and so on with all the memories.

And we’d talk and I’d tell her about the kindergarten I went to, and then the first and second elementary school, and so on. And then she’d say, “It sounds like you had a really happy child hood here. I’m glad we got such a good home.” And I’d look over at her and then in the car to see two children looking up in silence and a bag of groceries beside them. And in the moment I’d remember myself at that age and all the things I would protect myself from had I the chance.

“Yeah,” I’d say. “It was.”

When I was about 4 years old, the family I had at the time got a dog. He was a yellow lab, if I remember correctly, and there was nothing in our ability to take care of a dog appropriately. I suspect there was a greater interest in the idea of having a dog than the reality: the fantasy of having is almost always more appealing than the reality of having in a ‘the grass is greener’ sort of way.

And we had that dog and let him go ferrel because, I think, my parents were not equipped and neither were the children to take care of an animal. There were claw marks on the front of the wooden door because the family dog wanted to get out or in, but he remained ignored or misunderstood. And he’d run away because we didn’t have a fence and we’d let him out without respect to the consequence of what we were doing. I remember a knock at the door and this woman was sobbing with who I think was her husband, and they were holding our family dog and he was bloody and yelping because he was let outside and ran in front of a car and was hit by that car, but survived. The lessons of that event, however, weren’t learned or understood. The dog ran away because we were negligent.

Eventually, it all came down to a deal my mother made with me. And in retrospect, I wonder what she said to my father at the time, or my older brother or my older sister. But I remember her setting the expectation with me that we could keep the dog if I was the one to take care of him, whatever that meant. Feeding him, I think, is what she meant, because my mother told me she was tired of doing even that which indicates no one else cared. Ultimately, I failed, and she gave the dog away. We were too dysfunctional for the addition of life — for fish, dogs, and I’d even argue too dysfunctional for human life from what I remember of my experience.

In retrospect, I think of the dysfunction of that family as if it were affected by some mental illness hot potato that bounced around from one person to the other, but always in some surreptitious hand-off. And you wouldn’t know it at first until you felt the heat and were so sick of it you’d toss it to someone else in desperation. As for surficial specifics, I found the cassette tapes of phone tapped conversations from the family phone in the garage. That’s weird, right? Not to mention, in the most euphemistic of ways, the boundary issues year after year. And that’s why I have a therapist and will likely have a therapist for a long time.

Now that I’m older, my partner and I have a dog among other animals. I sometimes wonder if we are the primary reason for the escalating population of red-squirrels in the area because of all the walnuts we feed them. And every year, we hand feed some wild animal that comes into our yard. As for the dog, he’s an anxious fellow, but he’s loved. I stroke his ears and watch his eyes go from being wide-eyed to relaxed as I hum to him and tell him it’s ok. He doesn’t know exactly what I’m saying, but he understands the tone; he understands everything is ok. And sometimes, I’ll boop my nose on his forehead or rub my nose against his, or scratch under his chin. And when I do scratch under his chin and then stop, he’ll lurch his head forward and bump into me as if to say he wants more. Most of the time I concede and I’ll feel the weight of his head and I’ll drop my hands lower until my hands are ultimately a pillow for his head. And in that moment, I think, is when this four legged animal has claimed me in kinship. And I let him use me for a pillow for a little while longer until there is something else I have to do.

It’s fun having a dog. And it’s strange comparing how I’m interacting with this dog now compared to what I was taught (or not taught) when growing up. It’s quite a contrast, I think, to be in a situation where I’m nurturing a little dog with severe anxiety. I pet him a lot and give him little muscle massages and gently stroke his ears and cheeks. And sometimes I’ll pick him up and hold him when he gets into something he isn’t supposed to as a way to redirect his attention. Sometimes it works. In any case, I’d like to think this dog is being treated how that dog from childhood should have been treated. I guess this is me compensating for some sort of injustice. I’m making things right with love, in other words.