Due to some medical conditions and long history of recreational herbs my memory is slightly lacking. I think it was a 1996 or '97,
SoMeone and I took her Toyota Camry and rolled up to NYC to visit her brother and sister-in-law. On a whim one day we decided to take a quick hundred mile trip up to
Kingston, where I spent my formative years. We rolled through the city, stopping at
Dallas Hot Wieners for a bite. We drove past Kingston High School and
Dietz Stadium, the Friendly’s ice cream shop next-door. The memories began flooding in. We took a left onto Ulster Avenue. We passed the offices of our local newspaper,
The Daily Freeman. We passed the
Roundout Gardens apartment complex that
MeDad helped build. We traveled on knowing the farmhouse we lived in would be approaching immediately. We turned right in between the horse pasture and the
Ulster Tool & Die building and headed down the long dirt driveway. In my youth, it was 2 miles long.
As we headed down the driveway, long dormant memories sprung to life. The horses that freely roamed the field. That time one of
Da Sisters helped me up on one where I grabbed its mane and kicked it. It took off full speed in a circle, eventually coming back to where we started. I was falling off, only one leg left on the top of the horse and holding desperately to its mane,
Da Sister long gone. I tried to shimmy off gracefully, but let go of the mane and fell on my face. The first and last time I rode a horse. I remembered the tree that
Da Younga Sista was climbing in then fell out of. I remember running full speed home to tell my parents. The loading dock on the back of
Ulster Tool & Die. where would jump our bikes off. Every time we would crush our nuts on the banana seat of the bike. We complained about it but never stopped doing it. The open front barn where the hay was stored, jumping from the second floor into piles of hay. Our bravery was only equal to our stupidity.
The door that led to the creepy basement below the house. The entranceway stuck out 6 feet from the front of the house. There was a little roof on it that was accessible by jumping the rail of the porch. In another act of boyhood bravery, we would leap off and land in the grass, yelling out "I’m Fonzie". When one of those despicable
Scully kids chickened out we would yell at him. "You’re not Fonzie!".
Old Man Parnett’s house was still there though I assumed he was long gone. The giant field where I often tried to get a kite aloft but always failed. The dirt road that led to the despicable
Scully kids house. All the memories that made up a childhood crashed in my brain.
We lived in a farmhouse split into three living quarters. We had a two floor apartment. The other side of the house was 2 dwellings. On the top lived
Curt & Sue Rose and kids. I don’t remember the original tenants of the bottom floor, but I remember when the Korean family moved in. Anytime I would visit
The Roses' I had to pass through the fish smell seeping out of their apartment. I remembered
Leroy, who was a friend of
Curts. He would help out with the yardwork and the only thing he would ever say was "dig it".
I was filled with joy and excitement to see this regal house built in the 1800s. We got past the horse field and there it was...
completely burned to the ground. The big concrete patio dad built was intact as was the above ground pool he constructed. Seeing that pool reminded me of a winters day after the water had frozen. I rode a toboggan off the hill, over the dirt road, into the yard, head long towards the pool. I hit it head on. That knocked me loopy for a couple of days.
It was obvious due to the smell of burnt wood this fire had just happened. To the owner it was the loss of a rental property. To me it was a loss of innocence. Being nine years old and living there for a few years was idyllic. It was a time prior to the sea change of spontaneously moving out of state. It was prior to the polarization of losing everything...my friends, my baseball team, my positive outlook. All of that crashed down on me once we moved away. That house represented a lot more to me than a place I lived. I will never forget the living room with the black-and-white TV. The stairs leading to our three bedrooms with the door at the foot. Sliding down the stairs and crashing into the door. So much of myself left behind in this rubble.
We got out of the car and I fell to my knees crying.
SoMeone comforted me and pulled me up. I walked over to this burned pile of garbage and picked up one singular brick from the foundation. We tossed it in the trunk of the car and when I finally regained composure, we left.
Seeing the charred timbers taught me a lot. It made all of my memories that much more important. It also taught me how quickly the story can end. Some careless asshole set it ablaze not caring that that was my home. This chapter came to an abrupt halt. It taught me the sad fact that everything ends. I used to believe life goes on and we all have a happy ending, but it’s not true. Everything dies in the end. It’s a lesson I wish I had never learned. Since that day, I’ve lost two aunts,
MeMum, MeDad, a bunch of cousins, a best friend and three kittie friends. Some people like to say when god closes one door he opens another. I don't believe that. When god closes the door, it’s a closed door. The end. It’s over. It's gone. Just like my farmhouse.
That brick currently sits on my bookshelf watching over the
Worlds Largest Potted Meat & Spam (TM) collection. I see it every day. I’ve learned to put aside the pain that it represents and carry on. But some days....
Thank you for reading another boring episode of
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