I wish I had the word
to convince me
that it’s just not real
but that’s not the way
it feels-jim croce
I remember, distinctly, but here the years could be blended, a Jim Croce album and a Bobby Goldsboro record being overplayed in the “Hobby Room” with it’s black and white checker board, ballet bar, African bed dressings with Navajo rugs, the items relegated to the far away, colder than the ‘hole’ downstairs rabbit hole with the b+w zenith, more straw beds, lots of art and crazy artifacts all communicating while we slept upstairs–but yes, I left cookies out for Santa (my Dad–I remember in fifth grade pleading with the mob not to reveal to TONY that Santa was a fraud, a mere invention, like the tooth fairy and Easter Bunny, of our parents who were stuck in this tradition of promising some sort of magic, that started I don’t know when.
Jim Croce and Bobby Goldsboro by one of our fire places. We sort of tried to migrate to that ‘hobby’ room but most of my memories of the place were related to hiding out: my father with his mistress at the time in that hot tub; me in that same room two times, as a refuge, the hot tub and the beds; the Starsky and Hutch finale in that room with Hollis. Oh, and did I mention the random ballet bar that I was supposed to be grateful for?
Okay then. I saw a photo of that room with a weird loveseat, guilt gold, sitting there, on the black and white checkerboard. I remember walking out of the FRENCH DOORS, my mom loved those, I prefer even more wide open, but I walked out and onto where the septic sat, sinking, lower and lower, in some kind of storm. And I thought, as always, of that hill. Up to the trelise.