For My Father

My earliest memory is of me climbing the stairs of the Barton Street house in Virginia.

My father is the eldest of nine children.  Seven boys and two girls.  When my paternal grandfather passed away his house was offered for purchased to his children and my father, being the eldest, had first right-of-refusal.  He exercised his right and purchased the lovely old home and property!

The house sat on Barton Street - shouting distance to Ft. Meyer - the army base which is within the grounds of the Arlington National Cemetery.  When my window was open during the summertime I could hear "Taps" being blown by a lone bugler at precisely 10:00pm.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The house was also a very short distance from Georgetown just across the Potomac River from North Arlington where the house resided.  The lot on Barton Street was either a lot and a half or a double lot.  I don't remember.

There was a "little house" that sat on the back right corner of the lot which my grandparents lived in while building the "big" house.  The little house became storage and our playhouse.  In the attached garage Dad kept all his tools;  the lawnmower, the bikes, the surrey, the little red wagon, the memories.

The little house was two stories.  In the attic were mysterious boxes.  Halloween costumes; a box of old 78's (my personal favorite was "Strangers on the Shore" - yes I would look through the records and play them); rarely used luggage, etc.  The normal things one stores in an attic.  The downstairs had a tiny kitchen with a window and a "great room".  I suppose there was furniture in the room but I can't recall.

I loved the little house and would sometimes sit in a window and fancy myself a soon-to-be-literary person with a pad of paper and pencil all ready to write!  Which is pretty funny because I wasn't a reader or a writer.  I can't remember reading as a kid.  I don't recall that we had many books for children.  My dream of being a literary person pretty much came from watching Little Women.  I thought Jo March was wonderful!  And I thought why couldn't I be like her?

The big house was one story with a creepy basement.  The first floor consisted of basically a double parlor, an eat-in kitchen, a small television room we called the den, 2 bedrooms and one bath.  But the best thing about the first floor was the giant wrap-around front porch.  To this day I would love a house with a front porch.  I've never owned one.

The basement was unfinished except for a small half bath - a sink and a toilet.  Mom's washer and dryer resided there which had to be a drag.  Lugging all that laundry down to wash and up all clean and folded.  There was an old-fashioned sharpening wheel that you rode like a bicycle.  When I was older I would go down and ride the "stone" turning it round and round and pretend it was my own personal gym!  And the other thing that lived in the basement were CRICKETS - big black ugly CRICKETS!  Mostly dead laying on their backs with their legs up in the air, they still creeped me out and still creep me out to this day!

The other really wonderful thing about the Barton Street house was the yard.  There were three very old and very large Oak trees on the property.  My sister Sandy and I used to fantasize about having tree houses in those old Oaks with rope bridges between them.  Kinda like the tree house in Swiss Family Robinson!  We also had a nice swing-set with a slide and one of those glider things and two swings attached.

There was an alley that ran the length of our property connecting Barton Street with Cleveland Street behind us.  Mom planted and maintained many beautiful azaleas and iris and roses on our property.  She built a little round in the center of the yard with a birdbath and assorted bulbs and plantings.  I suppose my love of gardening started in the backyard of the Barton Street house.

I was one year old when we moved to Barton Street back in 1956.  That would have made my brother Paul eight and my sister Sandy (Sandra) two and a half at the time.  My mother would have been about thirty-three and my dad about twenty-nine.  My sister Shirley wouldn't show up for another three years.

Eventually that house became a six bedroom, two and one half bath home. 

My father decided to "raise the dormer" on his humble abode and add room for his growing brood of children by building a second story onto the house.  His band of talented brothers got behind the idea as they always have throughout their lives; assisting each other and helping each other accomplish their dreams and goals.  Which brings me to the point of my blog which is my earliest memory in case you forgot.

I don't remember my exact age at the time but a have a memory that's clear as a bell to me and I know I was very young.  I remember climbing the newly built, still unfinished stairway to the second story.  I knew my father was up there and I could hear the talking and banging and sawing of construction underway.  Perhaps I was looking for my dad; perhaps I was just curious about what was going on, I don't know but I distinctly remember just about reaching the top of the stairs on my hands and knees and looking left at the group of men gathered there and seeing my dad.  I remember him turning, surprised to see me on the steps, and a slow smile spreading across his face.  He came to me, picked me up and held me there level with his face.  Is there any sweeter thing than a little girl in her daddy's arms with his face beaming at her own?  If there is, someone please tell me what that thing is.  I remember feeling content and loved.

That's it.  That's the memory.

Now my mother tells me that there's no way I could remember this because I would have been too young.  But I say I remember it.  I know what I know!  My husband believes me too.  He also has an early childhood memory that his mother claimed he couldn't possibly remember.  But that's his story to tell.  The fact that he believes me and has a similar story is enough to further validate my belief that I do remember something so old with clarity.  Despite my mom's denial of this fact.  Despite her noise in my head.  The noise that says you can't Sharon.

My father is the teacher of unconditional love for me and for that I'll always be grateful.  Sometimes I don't think people learn about unconditional love until they have their own children.  I was lucky to learn it from a master.  I hope my own children understand that from their parents they have unconditional love.  It doesn't matter what they do in their lives, they will always have our un-dieing love; our faithful companionship and support when they want or need it and everything within and without us is theirs for the asking.  That's the noise I want in their heads - a steady pleasant hum; a quiet chant; a single beautiful note; a soothing noise.

I'm fortunate to have both my parents still living - a mommy and a daddy at fifty-six years of age is pretty special and not that common.  They both have their mental faculties though their bodies are failing them in various ways.  I wonder about the noise in their heads!