It’s funny the things you remember. They seem so important when you first remember them but then, you realize they have no importance, no bearing on anything. We used to pass a house on the way to the train station, right near the mall where Adam Walsh was abducted, that had a large front window with billowy white curtains and a white grand piano, right there. And I always wondered if they ever played it. And it was a typical south Florida 80s house, which is just so engrained in the maps of my childhood memories.
But really, why do I remember these things? The liquor store on Hollywood boulevard where my dad used to go to buy my grandfather’s Christmas whiskey and I wasn’t supposed to go inside, he said, but since I was with him it was OK but the clerk always eyed me, like I, as a kid, could do anything about my dad dragging me there.
I keep thinking that, as a writer, I’m supposed to be stricken by these images and put them to use. DO something with them.
The house in my neighborhood with the bright yellow door that reminds me of those south Florida houses I talked about. It’s long and flat – the house – and mostly white but that yellow door calls out to passers-by, hey, look at me! I’m not just a squat little home in a thoroughly middle class neighborhood. I have some personality. And a cat on my welcome mat.
It’s this time of year that random images just pop into my brain and show themselves in the flickering film reel of my subconscious. I’ll be browsing the web, sifting through tumblr posts and there’s the Dothan IGA and the country store in Killbuck, NY, the one with a vending machine on the porch that doesn’t sell soda but live bait. There’s no rhyme or reason. Stream of consciousness. The little plot of land on Betton road that used to be a slave cemetery back in Tallahassee’s plantation days. My grandfather’s baby blue Suburban that we were not allowed to roll the windows down in; you’ll break the seal and I’ll never be able to resell it.
Some day I swear I’ll use all these little places and times in my life to write a book, though about what I do not know. For now, I’ll hold onto them all, like little treasures that only I carry. Special times and brief moments, like baubles in a sacred box.