I’ve written a lot about the many phases of the gas station saga, the spark and motivation of the Pine Curtain Project and my attempt to document, work though and move forward (and help move my family forward) as things change so much around them. It has been a while since I provided an update — for a long time nothing really happened. And then, kaboom.
There’s the gas station. When I took this photo, I was standing in my parents’ yard. Not at the edge of it, in their garage. It’s worse in front of my grandfather’s house. Around the time the gas station was finishing construction, other parcels of land began to sell around my families’ homes. It has become a (somewhat expensive and complicated) game of whack-a-mole, with my extended family members and my parents trying to figure out what’s for sale, is it worth buying themselves, is it a good investment, etc. just to maintain some sense of normalcy for a little bit longer. When I was home last, in early May, the area was hard to recognize. Trees have been cleared in all directions, new construction is going up, three or more houses on lots that used to hold space for just one. As these changes have happened, there has been a predictable increase in petty crime like loitering, trespassing and break-ins. And so begins the letting go.
My parents are still coming to terms with what happens next, and because they’re mentally and physically independent, I try to just stay out of the way let them do what they do. And then I look for a bag to breathe into.
They, and my cousin, uncle and grandfather are all handling things in their own way. My grandfather, who lives practically in the gas station parking lot, is getting by with blackout curtains and a good sleep mask. My cousin, the practical one, has bought up some property to delay the inevitable, but has also been making trips to where they all want to resettle to scope it out. My uncle is the only one to actually cross the store’s threshold, because they make a good slushie. My parents are in archaeologist mode.
Every so often, my mom will show up for a visit with a plastic tub of my old stuff. Some of it’s relevant to my research but mostly it’s a hodgepodge. My dad is taking a different approach and finding random old things to refurbish. And I do mean random.
Mom: “Your dad found your bike to fix up for you.”
Me: “What bike?”
Mom: “The little cowboy one. Maroon.”
Me: “The one I had in third grade?”
Mom: “Yes! That one,”
Reader, I am 47. I am almost six feet tall. I don’t have kids and I don’t know any little kids. My cats will never be able to ride that bike.
Mom: “So, do you want it?”
Me: “Umm, why don’t you guys keep it for me a little bit longer.”
A few weeks later.
Mom: “Guess what we found?”
Me: “What?”
Mom: “Your Barbie Dream House!”
Me: “From 1982!?”
Mom: “Yeah, do you want it?”
A few weeks later.
Mom: “I found something you might want in the old barn.”
Me. “??”
Mom: “Your recorder!”
Me: “From elementary school? Like, the ‘Hot Cross Buns’ recorder?”
Mom: “Do you want it or not?”
Other things they’ve “found” and fixed up for me include some kind of ancient weed tiller thing from my late grandfather’s farm, a little deer hide chair from the 1800s, a foot-pedal sewing machine, a 1970’s Ford, a 1960s Mercury Comet and a 1992 Chevy S10. (To be clear, I already have a car!)
I know this is them working through what they need to work through, and who knows, maybe one day I will want to play the recorder again. I think my bestie Missy reclaimed her own Barbie Dream House in a similar scenario, so maybe we can set them up and play, like old times.
The next phase is one that I deeply dread. I have long-promised to help my mom clean out my room, and after years of kicking that can down the road, the day is fast approaching. I do not want to do this. Not only is it going to be an absolute a$$-whip of a project, I know what all is in there.
In the tubs that my mother has brought, the ones she’s piled into my car as its driving away, and the many more that remain, there are stacks of old notes, old writing, old mementos, yearbooks, and photos. Painstakingly folded notes that air one side of long-ago grievances, photos of me looking weird, photos of me trying too hard. Crispy-dried prom corsages. A hand-painted egg from a junior high family science project, still unbroken, resting in its little plastic basket. Diaries that contain God-knows-what about God-knows-who. Tube tops and plastic barrettes and probably all my vinyl pants from the nineties. Notebooks with doodles, directions and things to remember from long-ago trips and my time in New York, when Google didn’t exist and I had to rely on my wits. All of it there, just waiting to bite me.
I know that the cleanest break is to just throw things away. Stop digging, wash my hands, move on. But I can’t. I have to look through these boxes, even the ones that I know will hurt. Because we all know the myth about boxes, and how sometimes, even when pain flies out, there’s still hope left inside. Maybe I’ll find something good.
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