Summer in Tell Town

            by Ryan Race

 

Each summer I find myself on a plane crossing the country to stay in Momma’s hometown. Fantastic fishing, plenty of cows to tip, friendly faces, and sales at the local Wal-Mart are just a few of the handsome luxuries Tell Town, Indiana has to offer.

Grandpa Don lives alone, and doesn’t care much for spring-cleaning. Every visit, Momma goes through the cupboards and cleans expired, mold covered food out of the fridge. Everything in the house is blanketed in dust and the corners of the windowsills harbor corpses of lost insects with regrettable fates. The dishwasher is always full and the oven splattered with dribbled oil and grease. The first day of our visits is always devoted to tidying up the small, unkempt house.

I sleep up in the attic that smells strongly of mildew and sawdust, in Momma’s old bedroom. We look for clean sheets and pillowcases to put on the beds and set up the air conditioner in the window. There are always mouse traps sitting in the corners of the room so you have to be careful when you get up in the middle of the night to turn the air conditioner down to low. Old pictures of Momma and my uncles and aunt from high school are still on shelves in the dining room, along with the picture of Grandma Wako and her bright red lipstick, her proudly petite figure and large presence watching over the small aging home. The small home in the small town where my family’s heart lies.

~

 

The air is warm and muggy even though the sun is down and the mosquitoes are out. I set out and walk the two blocks to the park, wading through the thick air that suffocates the small neighborhood. Midwestern architects must have been big on transitional space because all of the houses along the thin cracked sidewalk have huge porches that run all along the front of the house, and some wrapping around the sides as well. All of the porches have hanging bench swings or chairs, but all of them are vacant tonight. I can hear loud music and shouts in the distance. The lights from the Ferris wheel are visible and rotate counter clockwise at a steady pace. Crossing the street, I walk under a large sign draping from two trees, “Tell City Schweitzer Fest”. The familiar smell of hot dogs and beer from the Brew Garden becomes distinct as I enter the multitude of Hoosiers. I pass by food stands with snow cones and chili, and game booths with ring toss and basketball hoops. Children stand hopefully by the counters and exchange dollars for rings, giant stuffed teddy bears on their minds.

            I scan the crowds of people and gaze over the spinning teacups for a familiar face. Momma is down in the Brew Garden with Tony Hollinden and her other friends from high school and college. She and Tony have known each other since the sixth grade and we always spend time with his family when we come to town. He and his wife Rhonda have five sons and their house is constantly busy with kids of all ages coming and going. Tony held momma’s hand when she stood in her black dress, seemingly alone in the snowy graveyard and weak with loss. Wako wasn’t wearing her red lipstick, and I wept at the sight of her painted face and strange clothes. I didn’t know the person lying in front of me, it wasn’t the stubborn and determined lady I had called grandma.

            “Ryan,” it’s the distinct adolescent voice of Joe, Tony and Rhonda Hollinden’s fourth son. “How long have you been here?”

            “Oh hey, I just got here. I was hoping I’d run into a familiar face. Let’s go on a ride, but not the tea cups, they make me sick.”

            “What, you didn’t enjoy them last time, pukey?” I fling my arm out and push his shoulder, flashing a warning look. “Alright, let’s go on the Rocket then, unless you’re still afraid to go upside down that is,” the friendly mocking tone in his voice presents an innocent challenge.

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah alright let’s go”.

~

           

            The Hollinden’s swimming pool and back yard is scattered with balls and floaties. The little dachshund, Brex, whom you can’t pet longer than a few seconds before he attempts to commit sinful, sexual acts with your knees, lies by the steps tied to the railing on the deck.

            “Marco.”

            “Polo.”

            “Marco,” there’s no response and I hear splashing in the direction of the step ladder, “fish out of water!”

            “Nope! Polo!” He’s closer now.

            “Marco, Marco, Marco,” arms outstretched and eyes closed, I stumble toward the shallow end of the pool.

            “Polo,” this time it’s only a whisper, inches away from where my fingertips feel. I stagger forward and spastically splash and grab for the victim, my hand finally grazing a shoulder. “Ah!”

            “Gotcha!” Satisfaction shone across my face in a smug grin.

            “Well, it was about time,” relief shone across his. I get out of the pool and bounce around on the plastic diving board, trying not to fall in the water. It’s getting dark and the cold breeze nudges me off the end of the board and into the pool. In his backyard, at night with only the stars and lightening bugs, Joe and I talk to each other about the past year. Telling stories and secrets, confessions and worries. We are only together one or two weeks a year, but catching each other up on the constant melodrama is always satisfying. Joe held my hand when I stood in my black dress, seemingly alone in the snowy graveyard and weak with loss.

~

 

Many years before I had stories, secrets, confessions and worries, I wandered in a world of make believe.

            In the small dining room of Grandpa’s house, stacked pillows and sheets draped over dining chairs shelter me from enemy fire. Nerf darts fly in every direction, the bad guys have taken Teddy hostage, but, don’t worry Teddy, I have a sneaky plan.

            Crawling out from the safety of my fort, I flail my arms in the air and holler a warning, “time out!” The darts stop flying. Groans and mutters whine from the boys’ side of the room.

Joe’s voice calls from around a corner, “how come?”

“Uh, I have to pee, be right back, okay?” I scramble to my feet and slap my feet on the floor as I stomp extra loud toward the bathroom. After pausing a moment and glancing back towards the whispers, I tip toe back to the hallway by the boys’ fort, my socks sliding soundlessly under my weight over the smooth wooden floor. I stop for a few seconds in front off the boys’ fort, eavesdropping on their whispers and watching their shadows through the thin cotton sheets. Taking in a deep breath, I reach my hand out, grab the sheets hanging in front of me and yank them towards the floor, “Hey! What are you doing? Girls aren’t allowed in here, remember?” I ignore their arrogant remarks and push down their wall of pillows. Glancing around the fort, I see no Teddy. There are four pillows placed in a square on the floor, a fourth pillow resting on top like a lid, it reminds me of the cushy silk box that Grandma keeps her prettiest tea set in. Sliding over the smooth floor, I venture toward the neatly stacked pillows and fling off the one on top. My body freezes and everything inside me screams in horror. There’s my teddy bear, victimized and bald in all the wrong places, tufts of fur scattering the floor. Grandpa’s great big scissors with the bright orange handles lay amid the snipped fur. “Mommmmmaaa!” my eyes swell with tears, “Joe made Teddy naked!” I scoop up the pathetic, humiliated bear into my arms, hug it tight to my body, and run from the scene.

“I can even out Teddy’s bald spots if you go play with grandma instead for a little while,” Momma can fix anything.

Folding over each corner of the delicately printed paper as instructed and demonstrated by Grandma Wako’s confident hands, I folded my first paper crane. I was six, and only needed nine hundred and ninety nine more for a miracle.

~