Right now I’m in the basement at Aunt Draza’s house, under a quilt in an old bed. Last night when we walked in, the first thing I said was “Mmmmm, Aunt Draza’s house always smells like Aunt Draza’s house.” To which Calvin agreed, “I know.”
We’re here alone, Draza and Terry have gone out to the ranch for the week. We’re here to get ready for Calvin’s state championship bike race on Saturday.
We unloaded our bags, brought our things in in the dark of night, fumbling for light switches. We had to unpack a few groceries we bought for breakfast in morning. The kitchen is different.
Lots of things are different actually. When we went to the basement, Calvin claimed Wendy’s bedroom. He was mildly curious when I told him. And I’m in David’s room, only when we were kids David’s room was sheets of plywood nailed. And my makeshift room was sheets tacked to the rafters, with a piece of PVC strung thru a rope to make a bar to hang my clothes on. Because I lived at Aunt Draza’s house for a few months when I was teenager. But that’s a story from the pool of stories I never tell.
I looked around the house last night, noting the things that have changed. So many things have changed! Her big roll-top desk that was always in the front room is gone. And where is the piano? The picture of Uncle Terry thru the slats of the barn at the ranch isn’t on the wall any more. And the kitchen has been redone. And of course, the basement is finished. But other things are the same. I found the picture of the temple in the mist, still in it’s frame, in the basement. And most of the furniture is the same – antique, but not the stuff you buy in a strip mall over the weekend, but the sort that’s been inherited, handed down thru the generations of ranchers who didn’t have money for anything new, but certainly knew how to care for what they had.
Every bed is covered with a home made quilt, which the words
Summer nights are warmer than a whisper beneath a quilt somebody’s mother by hand.
And I lie under the quilt and breath deep the scent of Aunt Draza’s house, and feel very comfortable and content, and I wonder at all the mistakes I’ve made in my life. How did I fall for every wrong choice made by my own parents. How am I in this mess of bigger is better? And how do I get a fresh start? How did I get a small house that’s open to every passing thru traveler? How do I have a home that is clean and cared for, but simple and so full of the spirit that people come like moths drawn to this one burning flame of light and goodness?
I’ve maybe never felt more akin to that 16 year old me who sought refuge here 30 years ago (in just a few months!). I feel broken and discouraged and really truly lost. I wish I could hide in Aunt Draza’s basement for a bit, and hit reset on everything. But I can’t. Too many people rely on me. I can’t extricate myself from my life. And I just don’t know how to fix it. But I’ll take laying in her basement under her quilts for a few days any time I can get it.
Amen.
PS- at home I have two things from Aunt Draza: a quilt she made 29ish years ago. She made it for my mom, but my mom (being herself) didn’t like it. So I claimed it. It was in heavy rotation for many years, but it rarely gets used any more. It sits at the top of the linen closet, safe from the kids who have stained it a few times. But when I get home, I’m going to pull it down and put it on a couch that I sit on regularly. And also the poem – The House By The Side of the Road, that is right next to my front door, was hand-written in Aunt Draza’s calligraphy.