Missing parts

That should have gone on to say peanut butter, tomato, and mayonnaise sandwiches. I wrote two more paragraphs, and they disappeared. I will have to try and capture the muse once again, but that will happen tomorrow.

Earthquake of 1949

I was 11 years old. My Grandmother and I had gone to downtown Seattle to see a movie. We had gone up to the balcony to watch the movie, as my Grandmother preferred that place over being downstairs. I really can't remember what the movie was, but I know my Grandmother did not want me to tell my Mother what movie we had seen. We were well into the watching when we heard a sound, over and above the movie sound. It was a rumbling and it seemed to come from the back of the screen. Grandma said it sounded like maybe the boiler for the heat was acting up. After a few more moments of this sound we realized the balcony was vibrating. Grandma said it was time to get out. There were not a lot of people in the theatre, so it was easy to get out, no pushing or shoving, and very little panic or frightened talking. We got out on the street, and it seemed sort of dark, and then we both noticed the windows in the buildings around us. They were bowing in and out. Grandma said we had better get out of here, and remember, don't tell your Mother what movie were saw. Walking was weird, sort of like you were tipsy as the street was sort of undulating. My memory is poor from then on, but I imagine we finally walked to where we could get a bus and get back home.

The movie bit, not telling what it was, reminds me of taking my own Mother to Vancouver B.C. to see 'I Am Curious Yellow', and my Mother asking me if I was sure I knew what this movie was about. There was a scene up in a tree where a man and a women were getting very amorous. Once again, there was an astonished comment from my Mother, 'my goodness, how are they managing that?' I am not sure she was impressed.

Ah, the movies. I went and saw Avatar three times and was enthralled. It really hit a cord that twanged with me, and reminded me of my imagination when I was a child playing in the woods, with my next door neighbor, swimming in the Lake, and climbing trees that were twined with ivy that braided so we could swing from tree to tree bellowing like Tarzan, and then running down to the lake and plunging in to swim away into the lily pads to hide. We often skinny dipped, and then snuck up to one or the other house to make peanut butter, tomato, lettuce and mayonnaise sandwiches. They tasted so good on a hot summer day. We would sit on the lawn and eat, laughing and telling each other jokes. Then it would be back to the woods or the lake. We could go into the neighbors boathouse and watch the bass swimming languidly under the dock. The light was just right slanting into the boathouse so the the fish seemed like we could reach down and touch them as they swam by. In actuality they probably would have bitten our fingers. We could be food.

Early mornings on the weekend we would meet and munching on something sweet, like a donut or something, we would cruise along the waterfront which was actually front yards down to the water and there would be dew on the grass, but we felt like explorers in new territory. I don't know if anyone saw us and were irritated, but it was a nice time of day.

I wrote a lot more here, but for some reason it did not get saved and it melted out of my brain. But I shall keep trying to find the thread.

My Old Home

While on a visit to the big city to see my youngest who flew down from the cold country up North to have a respite with a shopping spree, on the way back home we went by my old home on the Hill. It was a wet day, rain off and on, and evereything is so green this time of year, and the Rhodies are in full bloom all over, and I was sure the streets were way narrower than I remembered, we drove slowly by the house. I asked if we could stop and I would take pictures of the place for posterity. In front of the house is a triangle that divides a road that goes down hill from the narrow little street in front of the house. The Chestnut trees are huge, but the yard looked smaller, and a rhododendron by the door was enormous also. It is pink and beautiful.

As I stood there looking at the house and imagining the interior, the door opened and a young man with bare feet putting on a shirt stood there, and he said, 'hi'. I pardoned myself and just said I grew up in this house and I was taking pictures of the rhodie. He walked down the stairs, and over the grass in his bare feet, and I thought he must feel the cold. He said, 'hey, I grew up in this house also.' He gave me his name and asked me mine, and then a siamese cat came mewing out towards us. I said we had cats and dogs in this house, and he said, 'well, we are keeping up the tradition'. I told hims some little reminiscent stories, took a couple more pictures, and he said, 'my parents left for Europe, but if you come back down this was again, knock on the door cause I think my parents would like to meet you and here about when you lived here.' I said that I would, and left.

As a small girl, the yard was huge, and the streets wide, and the house huge, and it is now in perspective, but I remember every room in that house. I told the young man that my Dad hated the pigeons that roosted over his bedroom window, and was always at war with them. He said his Dad did the same thing. I just might go back!