“I live two blocks from where I grew up”

Flamingo Drive was actually a spacious culdesac formed by a semi-circle of unique houses, built in the fifties, landscaped with birds of paradise, red bottle-brush bushes, and roses. Giant magnolia, pine, and palm trees shaded the yards. As if fringe on a blanket the cement driveways lined the sidewalks. There was a pool in every other backyard, and most of the homes were swathed in taupe or grey, but our house had a bright turquoise front door which Mom adored. The towering telephone pole that serviced the entire neighborhood acted as a home base for freeze tag, hide-in-seek, and a place to gather. With one to four kids per house, we never lacked a playmate on Flamingo Drive or someone to walk to 7-11 for an afternoon Slurpee. Our mothers spent the summer frying up bacon and eggs in the morning, grabbing a game of tennis before the sun reached its zenith, racing home to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and catch an episode of As the World Turns while ironing a week’s worth of clothes. On the weekends if we were lucky Mom would order Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner with biscuits and corn. She chased us off the freshly mopped floors and out into a carefree life. I thought things would never change.

“I live two blocks from where I grew up”

My sister and I spent much of our time in a make-believe world that our parents could not reach or fathom. They were enjoying a cold beer by the pool, wrestling with their adult issues, while Nancy and I were carried off by knights in shining armor to plastic barbie mansions. It was an era where children were expected to entertain themselves. Our Mom appeared larger than life, we observed her from a distance, emulated her mannerisms, even practiced holding martini glasses with our pinkies extended. We would grow up to admire her more than she ever knew.

“I live two blocks from where I grew up”

Dad would stand on the porch in the early evening and whistle, I can still hear the loud shrills of his high-pitched blended tones, calling us in from our play, dinner was about to be served, and our hands were to be clean. Mom would be rustling up a salad with fresh fixings from the garden, in sandals with white ankle socks, Bermuda shorts, clip-on earrings which she pulled off in the evening, and a white t-shirt tucked neatly in the waistband. Dad would be standing beside her prepping the steaks with mysterious seasonings, he would be barefoot, in baggy jeans, but with a button-down shirt and shabby apron. It was as if watching the tango in that small hot kitchen, with Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass playing on the stereo. They had a distinct rhythm, and familiar postures, with integral pauses to refill their wine glasses. 

In the next room, Nancy would be in Dad’s recliner, and I would be curled up on the couch watching the latest episode of the Flying Nun. We’d eat dinner at the antique round table in the family room, TV muted, with Mom saying “Dick, this is too spicy.” Nancy would kick me under the table as I giggled, Dad would smirk while chewing his steak, and that is how those simple words became our evening prayer. Irreverence abounded. Dad surprised Mom with the dining room set several years ago, it had a matching hutch, she never liked the style. But not wanting to hurt his feelings, it was something he never knew, and we all internalized this idiosyncrasy.

“I live two blocks from where I grew up”

On hot nights after dinner Mom and Dad would enjoy a glass of wine on the green patio chairs under the tiki lights, watching Nancy and I pretend to be mermaids in the deep end of the pool. Every couple of minutes Mom would say, “Dick, have they been down there too long?” Dad would laugh, “no Ann, they’re mermaids.” Oh, how I remember those long languid evenings, Mom left a glass of water on my nightstand, it was so hot we slept in our underwear on top of the sheets, waiting for the cool of the morning. Most of what I know I learned from my Mom. 

“I live two blocks from where I grew up”

My sister was two years older than me, when she was eleven or twelve, we protected each other much more than we fought. I knew that she read way past her bedtime with a flashlight under the covers and I kept that secret my entire life. Just about every other night I would slip into her room, especially if I had a nightmare, she’d lift the warm sheet and let me in, sometimes telling me a sweet story to calm my fears. I can still hear her quiet voice in the dark, not the words, just the soothing sounds that ushered me into a deep rest. 

“I live two blocks from where I grew up”

I’ll be sixty-two in a few weeks, I don’t know why but I drove by our old house today before driving to my sisters, still looking for refuge from a difficult world. She opens the door and ushers me in, her in the recliner, me on the couch just like in the old days, she continues to calm my fears and put me to rest. Oh, how I wish my Mom and Dad were still alive. They would be in their eighties now. When your parents are alive you have this fabricated barrier between you and death, but also a place to hang your adulting hat when needed, ask your Mom for peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s Mother’s Day today, her gift would be on the hearth wrapped in pink paper with a pretty ribbon. I remember one year Nancy and I made her a tape of our favorite songs, recording our favorite stories of Mom in between the music. Dad found her outside in the car, the only place she could play a cassette, listening intently, and crying intermittently. We found that little tape in her dresser drawer after she died. She kept it all these years. 

“I live two blocks from where I grew up”

This life is not what it used to be, simple, carefree, uncomplicated. I don’t know what I’m looking for when I drive by the old house? I have this urge to chase the people out of my home and go in search of evidence of me. I want to pretend for a moment that nothing has changed, that Laurie, Lori, Sheila, and Nancy will gather at the telephone pole to complain about our Moms, the heat, and the end of the summer. I want to hear that whistle one last time, calling me home, steaks sizzling on the grill, Mom complaining about the spice, Nancy kicking me under the table. And perhaps someday I will. 

I’m Living in the Gap, missing my Mom, closing my eyes, and letting the memories take me two blocks from where I live.

*Inspired by a beautiful poem I just read called “Looking for The Gulf Motel” by Richard Blanco