The Carpet
The family room floor is wrong. I’m standing in my childhood home in the central Ohio suburbs. I bought it last year when I saw the For Sale sign in the brown weed-choked yard.
Last month, I picked out Ribbon Oak Matte Ceramic tile at Floor & Decor on Frank Road for the family room. I spent three days tearing out the current brown carpet my dad installed decades ago. Cut and laid the tile with precision. Admired my work and the effort.
But today, I see the ugly original shag carpet that my dad removed in the late 1970s. As if the yellow strands sprouted out of the floor like August sweet corn.
The shag carpet has thick yellow strands, rough and stubborn, half an inch high. When I press my palm into it, the fibers don’t spring back. It still smells faintly sour, as if some kid named Joey spilled his soup long ago and never cleaned it up.
My eight-year-old son Timmy walks in. “Did the carpet grow overnight or something, Dad?” I pause. Maybe it did. Houses have long memories.
A day later, the 65-inch flat screen Samsung over the fireplace is gone. But a 35-inch wood cabinet tube TV has sprouted in the corner. Timmy isn’t happy with the three channels. He clicks the TV dial between the channels constantly.
The Kitchen
I’m sitting at the gray farmhouse table with black metal legs we bought last spring. Timmy does his arithmetic homework to my right, using a No. 2 yellow pencil. I look down again, and the table is white Formica with curved white-iron legs. The iron is cold against my left calf.
I need to pay the mortgage and water bill. I write two checks and address the envelopes. Stamps taste like first-grade paste.
1866 Greenglen Court.
I print it slowly in black pen in the upper left corner.
The eight looks wrong at first.
I slide the bills into the mailbox on the porch for the postman.
I raise the red flag.
The next day, the orange linoleum in the kitchen turns into a short green carpet. A drop ceiling appears with fluorescent lights. Where did my cell phone go? I’m unsure, but a yellow rotary phone appears on the wall. Timmy notices it and fingers the dial. He asks me how it works. I don’t remember. Maybe Timmy’s mom in the kitchen knows.
The Willow
A week passes. The old willow tree stump in the back-left corner of the lot begins to grow again. Recently, I finished the basement with white and blue walls and a flat white sheetrock ceiling. But paneling now covers the walls, and the ceiling is hung with tiles and fluorescent lights. I hear them hum. Timmy’s mom walks by with the laundry and notes, “Joe, it smells damp down here.”
I run upstairs when the doorbell rings. No one is there when I answer. Children running away around the corner with fading giggles.
Outside now, I’m washing our green Toyota Highlander in the asphalt driveway, soapy water running down my bicep into my armpit as I reach scrub the roof. I glance down. Now I’m washing a 1978 burgundy Pontiac Bonneville. The red velour seats don’t seem strange. Almost comforting. What’s that 8-track tape under the seat? Can’t quite reach it.
The Korean neighbor waves and admires my new Pontiac. He likes to shoot baskets with his two sons. The backboard and hoop hang from the gutter. The basketball thumps on the driveway.
Timmy runs around the corner from the backyard. ‘Dad!’ he pants. “The willow tree is taller than me now! It’s wider than my arms, too!” That tree seemed to extend to the clouds when I was eight. I’m glad the ragged stump is showing life again. By the weekend, the branches stretch to the second story. The morning sun casts long shadows on the back of the gray house through the willow’s spidery branches.
A week later, the tree is full, its leaves heavy. Ready to climb again. I remember how the long leaves tickled my cheeks as I climbed higher long ago. Or was that yesterday?
The Bike Ride
I get my Trek racing bike down from the red hooks on the garage wall. I roll out of the driveway and hang a left. I look down. My bike isn’t a Trek - it’s a deep blue Schwinn 10-speed. It’s heavy and slow, but I love how the gear levers shift as I move through the gears.
I turn right off Greenglen and see my old friend Matt, curly brown hair with a red UGA t-shirt. 9 years old. “Hi, Joey! Can you ride to the drug store? There should be new Richie Rich comic books!’ I feel the lump in my left shorts pocket - 5 quarters from my allowance. It’s enough for a fun summer day.
We ride the mile to the drug store on the cracked macadam. My shadow from the afternoon sun stretches longer behind me than Matt’s. I’m adult-sized, but my knees definitely don’t creak and ache when I pedal. I pedal faster than in years. The road seems to stretch out endlessly before us.
Neighbors raise their hands as I pass. How’s your mom, Joey? Good? Yes, she’s good. It feels good to wave at neighbors again. I’m happy.
I say ‘see ya’ to Matt at his house as I turn left onto our street.
A grilled cheese and piping-hot tomato soup are ready for me on the white-and-gray Formica counter. Just like Mom knows I love. She smiles at me from the kitchen sink as I dig in. ‘Soup’s hot. Don’t burn your tongue, Joey!’ I wipe buttery fingers on my shirt while she isn’t looking, washing a dish with Dove soap.
Lightning Bugs
Late summer evening in the backyard, the sun just below the horizon. The willow tree branches brush the fence now and rise above the roof. Timmy runs laughing in front of me, under a low willow branch. I follow, ducking under it. The air smells faintly of corn and cut grass, and it’s loud with crickets. A damp chill creeps in from the fields.
Mom calls from the back deck - just 10 more minutes, boys. We sigh and keep running in clouds of blinking green fireflies that follow our steps in the soft green grass.
The fireflies swirl as one living thing.
I hoot. “I can’t believe these fireflies!’ Timmy stops, head cocked. ‘Lightning bugs, Joey. They’re lightning bugs.” I pause. The willow branch leaves tickle my nose as I turn. I start to say ‘fireflies’ again. I realize he’s right. They’re lightning bugs.
My brother darts past the willow and into the darkest part of the yard. I almost lose sight, but lightning bugs swirl around him.
I follow.