I Remember

My thoughts race through everything and nothing at the same time. I lay in bed thinking of each bedroom I had and its layout in the house I grew up in. My mind travels through the years connecting random memories to the next. No rhyme or reason to where the thoughts began or where they are going.

 I think of living in base housing, the first home I lived in that I have any concrete memories from, and I remember nothing of the inside of the house. I remember the carport being connected to the neighbors as is customary in military housing. I remember playing with the stereo, and dancing to the theme song from “Saved by the Bell.” I remember pretending to be asleep when I heard people at the door the night my dad came home from Desert Storm. Yet, no other memories stand out about the inside of the house.

I remember walks around the track at Hiller Park. I remember going to Catholic school for kindergarten. I remember learning how to spell my name and instantly deciding it had too many letters and I was never going to go by my full name. It was hard to spell and hard to say. I was five when I made the official decision to henceforth always be called Gabby, never Gabrielle. Unless of course I was in trouble, which honestly happened more often then not.  

I remember my dad deploying and being gone for what felt like years, but in reality was less than one. I remember we went to Disneyworld for the first time when dad got back from Desert Storm.  I remember Sandy, the best dog ever (at least until I had Duke). I remember learning that Sandy was short for Sandringham because my parents loved England. My mom always said she would go back to England in a heartbeat and often joked about stowing away on friends' travel plans. I remember we always went on at least one family trip a year. Going to Louisiana where the majority of my family was born never counted as a trip, it was simply going home.

I remember Uncle Martin’s house in Raceland, Louisiana. You had to turn at the street with the brick wall of the old post office. I remember his garden. The horrible smell of the sugar plant but loving getting stalks of sugar cane. His pickled cucumbers that no one else ever had the recipe for and that I haven’t had since 1995. The freshest vegetables that even I would eat because it made him happy. I remember always wondering why he had a picture with a matador and bull, and never getting an answer. I remember the smell of old furniture and learning that it was my dad’s home without being where he grew up.

The camp as we always called it that took a car ride and a boat ride to get to but was the best place ever. I loved swinging on the hammock that was fused between two trees, no storm was going to take that thing away. Learning to swim by running and jumping off the end of the dock, but always having to wear a life vest because I was never a strong enough swimmer to be left on my own in the channel. The 1950s style of Aunt Alice’s place always felt cheery and fun yet from an old school magazine at the same time. The salty smell in the air was never thick or detested as a kid, but always refreshing. Shoes were rarely if ever worn.

I remember my grandmother’s house, the layout, and the smell. The water was always the worst, it smelled like bad eggs. I remember laying on the rough carpet watching “Johnny Quest.” My great-grandmother, Baby’s house was right next door. I never knew her real name, it was just always Baby. I never remember being allowed to go inside her house until after she died. She had a lot of old things I wasn’t allowed to touch. My sister was named after my grandmother, but my sister hates her first name and has always gone by her middle name.

I remember always thinking, I’m not calling her by her middle name because she doesn’t even say it right. If she at least said it right, I would use her middle name, but since she won’t I’ll always call her by her first.

Going to church and Monsignor Farrell telling me that he couldn’t call me Gabby because I was named after an Archangel. We would always have the conversation either before or after mass almost every Sunday until I was seven. Growing up in a Catholic church was interesting, different, and special all at the same time. At one time I knew every inch of the church, parish hall, and even the convent that is no longer used as a convent. Even though I didn’t attend the school after kindergarten, until they added new buildings, I even knew that like the back of my hand.

The Parkway house as my family came to call it. I remember almost everything. The ugly, burnt orange shaggy carpeting. The slant of one room that was originally a garage that had been closed in and converted to a den. I remember getting in trouble for playing in the concrete as it was being laid. The threshold held my name, scribbled using a stick I found. It wouldn’t surprise me if it is still scrawled there. The cherished bay window that I spent many days laying in adding pillows trying to find the most comfortable spot. I remember helping my dad and uncle build the “big” shed outback. I remember digging and building the pond in the back right corner and laying the concrete stones. It was always my hideaway in the summer because the branches from the trees would hide me when they were heavy with greenery.

I remember the rope swing that I spent day after day climbing, swinging, and falling off of. The treehouse that of course had to become unsafe as soon as I was old enough to go up there by myself. The yard never looked the same after that huge tree came down after Hurricane Katrina. So many memories are tied into that house. I still dream of it as home when I’m restless and dream at night, even though the details are never exactly right.

I have two older sisters that never wanted to share a room with me. I felt rejected at the time but considering the age difference, it’s understandable. What teenager wants to be surrounded by a sibling still in elementary school. For many years I shared a room with my middle sister. I remember how she kept the room tidy. Mostly so she could tell when I got in her things. I remember the bunk bed that had a bigger mattress on the bottom than the top. I would always try to slide down the metal “C” of the frame even though it never worked, and I almost always got hurt.

I remember when my sisters finally had enough and needed their own space my parents made me my own room in the three-bedroom house. They took the side-by-side walk-in closets of both my sister’s rooms and made a tiny “L” shaped room just for me. It was the best thing ever. I finally had my own room! Except since it was originally designed as two closets, I was never allowed to have a door because there was no ventilation, but still it was mine!

I remember going to the BX on base and picking out the wallpaper that went along the chair rail. Of course, it was unicorns. My absolute favorite movie was The Last Unicorn, and as such, I had to have unicorns in my room. As my oldest sister grew up and moved out, I was finally able to have a full-fledged bedroom.

I remember the summer days of imagining I was Harriet the Spy (notebook included) trying to solve mysteries in the neighborhood. I remember the park down the street being built it being spooky because the back of the walking trail went close to the wooded area that always seemed to be so much cooler than the rest of the trail. Walking the trail four full times equaled a mile, and I walked many miles on it.

I remember getting older and finding fewer and fewer reasons to wander the wooded area. Fewer and fewer reasons to ride my bike anywhere and everywhere. Fewer and fewer reasons to swing and slide at the park. Fewer and fewer reasons to walk to the water and feed ducks old bread while lounging on the old pier reaching out into the Back Bay.

I remember finding fewer and fewer reasons to be a kid and more and more reasons to grow up and become an adult. If I could go back to the simplicity of what I remember the thing I would remember the most is to enjoy it and never ever wish to grow up faster.