1972 A house is built. It is two stories high, brick with four columns reaching from the simple patio to the roof. There is a front yard and a descent size back yard too. Three bedrooms and two point five baths. Carpeted floors with solid pine doors. Spacious living and dining rooms. An open kitchen with plenty of cabinet space.
The Johnson family moves in. Furniture is bought and strategically arranged. Their belongings fill the rooms. Years later, after the kids have grown up, this family puts a For Sale sign in the front yard.
1993 The Carvin family, my family, buys this house. 1831 Northwood Drive. The neighborhood has 117 other houses, all of them built around the same time but varying in style. We move our boxes in, labeled Kitchen, Scott’s toys, Navy Stuff, and TRACY’S DO NOT OPEN!!. My older sister gets her own room while my brother and I share a room across from our parents’. We all sprawl out, settle in.
The Tennessee Carvins
Russell Tice Carvin III
He is a Navy man, serious and hard working. He has a harsh sense of humor and a loud laugh.
Cynthia Nell Carvin
She can’t plan a day ahead for meals and hates housework. She tells the corniest jokes, never cusses, and cries at Hallmark commercials.
Tracy Lynn Carvin (now Tracy Feist)
The rebellious older sister who can claim she has worked at every fast food restaurant. The one who is married with three beautiful kids. Kind of crazy and it is hard to say when she is telling the truth.
Lara Marie Carvin
I am a reluctant student, a friend claiming to always keep secrets, and a person wishing she had better taste in music.
Scott Vinson Carvin
My younger brother who charms all girls (all the rich, skinny ones anyway) and plays sports as second nature. He eats like a fat kid but never gains a pound. A person that is good, even when he messes up.
Casey Carvin
The dog. A mut. Red haired and skinny. Lazy and sweet.
Kitchen
First: avocado green appliances and counter tops and dark carpet
Later: cream walls with stenciled carousel horses-white appliances-hardwood floors
Now: red walls-chef decorations everywhere-black and white tile behind stove
The first thing that comes to mind is food. So many meals, only some of them being significant. Bustling around trying to make Thanksgiving a success; stuffing, sinful potatoes, cranberry sauce (out of a can), rolls, and the turkey. One year a scream from here alerted the whole family. Flames shot out of the oven. My mother’s eyebrows the only casualty. Christmas switches over to honeyed ham, the side dishes stay the same. Staples. My brother buys me an apron. I bake. I seem to be pretty good at it. Chocolate chip cookies (secret recipe but really from Nestle Tollhouse). Cakes for birthdays and biscotti for my dad. Three layer cheesecake was the most expensive at the bake sale. I take this as a victory. But have also failed while trying to impress with my culinary skills. Broken red velvet cake, pancake-flat cookies, floppy fortune cookies, a birthday cake for my dad, which, after I ate one bite was thrown out.
My mom can connect this room to heartache and near disaster. In one year my brother had to go to the hospital three times. He leaned back in his chair. Too far. Bam. His chin is busted open and he needs stitches. He plays outside with me by the tree house. It has a rope and his neck slips in it. I run inside to yell for mom. She lays him on the kitchen table to check to see if her little boy is still breathing. Scott pulls a chair up to the counter, removes red pills from the cabinet, eats them, and puts the pill container back. My mom discovers a pill with little teeth marks in it. To the ER. Stomach pumped.
A photo shows me having a tea party. I was much too old to have teddy bears and stuffed bunnies sitting in chairs, drinking tea out of delicate porcelain cups. I tell my mom about my worries as she dries as I wash. Don’t talk too loud, dad could overhear. Scott has to clean the kitchen. It’s his chore. After dinner he goes to the bathroom (number 2 always) then he comes back and takes at least an hour to clean. His singing booms through the house. Off-key and jumbled up versions. Constantly on his cell phone, texting. Casey eats food off a plate. Scott and I slide along the floor on our socks. Dice roll. “Yahtzee,” yells my mom.
Living Room
This room has managed to stay the same through the years. However, the light blue furniture has been swapped for tan, comfy pillow-laden couches.
Carousel horses are everywhere. To an outsider it must seem creepy, carousel horses and pillows with carousel horses, and a hand made carousel horse made out of an old toy that use to spring me back and forth now painted pink with ribbons and flowers hanging everywhere. The speakers pound out energetic beats that make you want to jump all around in legwarmers and an over-sized sweatshirt. My mom’s legs go up and down and up and down. Two more times ladies! The Buns of Steel album revolves around the turntable. Scott and Tracy’s to-be husband run around in circles trying to hit each other with the tubes of wrapping paper. The smaller of the two wins. My brother and I sit on couches facing one another. Our small niece, clumsy on her feet runs between us. We aim the throw pillows at her legs. She falls down, laughs and we laugh with her. A kind of torturing game. Her mom yells at us. It’s dark and it’s the last day of October so my dad faces the speakers toward the open windows. “Halloween Sound Effects” screams to the neighborhood, inviting the trick-or treaters. The lights go out so my parents and I play games by candlelight.
“No I want dad,” I yell at Scott.
“No way. Girls against boys. You get mom,” Scott denies me.
I sigh in defeat. Mom sucks at this game.
“What’s wrong with me?” Mom asks, but she already knows why I’m disappointed.
I get on her back and Scott hops on dad’s. Dad, on all fours, rams into mom. Again. She stumbles and I slid off.
“MOM!” I whine.
“I’m sorry,” she pants.
Dad and Scott laugh. He rams into her side again, making a bull snort.
Don’t toss the pillows, company is over. They- family, friends, our priest, the ex-nun, Knights of Columbus brothers- sit down and chat. Wine before dinner and coffee after. A crowd now. Chairs are pulled up and people eat holding their little paper plates and napkins. My graduation and everyone I care about is there. They chuck packs of Ramen at me as I open gifts. Ouch, Tracy’s friend nails me in the back. Quiet back down, reading hour. The couch has worn down because my dad sits in that one spot. He reads about the presidents, naval battles, The War to End All Wars, Jack Ryan and Dirk Pitt. I read teen fiction until feeling too guilty about reading such crap. (Shakespeare and Sophocles eventually get on my nerves so I open Hush, Hush.) “Shut up Nicky!” My stupid bird chips nosily and flaps around.
My Parents’ Bedroom
The blizzard of ’93 and the room is painted pink. Hearts are everywhere. “Love is Patient Love is Kind Love Does Not Boast Love is not Proud.” How does my dad live in this room? Years later it changes: green and has more abstract, gender-neutral decorations.
The Mac is in here. iTunes iLife iPhoto. Scott types a paper on Gollum; mine is on the cultural values, affirmed and criticized, in The Natural. French compositions, mythology journals, geology lab reports, essays, resumes, short stories, astronomy paper. Zip drive: stick it in, Open, hit Print. Possessed printer. Out of ink. Out of paper. “Waiting for print data.” My dad shows us funny e-mails. People of Wal-Mart. Racist comments with pictures. Redneck weddings. Red State Report. He squirms when seeing crazy piercings.
Sunday morning and Mass has ended. I collapse on their bed and my brother and I ask what mom is going to make for lunch. I’m sick and stay home from school. Little House on the Prairie is the only thing on. That blonde, curly headed girl is such a bitch. The huge sliding mirror closet has all my mom’s clothes. She keeps eighties dresses and the shoes that match perfectly. One-piece, shorts and sleeveless back and white top. Shoulder pads and a lime green jacket. Casey is trapped in the room. Now she is dragged into the bathroom. Shaking and unhappy as we pick her up and place her in the tub. She was laying on the bed. My dad is pissed.
Hall Bathroom
Before: carpet, dark green floral wallpaper with matching shower curtain, hanging lights
After: tile floor, fish decorations (bright blue, green, and yellow), new vanity, light, and toilet. Dad put in a small skylight.
It was Tracy’s designated bathroom and then it was mine. Scott did not want to use it. Never took showers in here. Said my hair got on him. The CD player is turned up real loud: Offspring, Cold War Kids, OneRepublic, Evanesence, Madonna, Journey. I sing loudly. Steam billows out of the shower and the mirrors fog up. Mom paints my nails. She is terrible. I get sick in the middle of the night and curl up on the small carpet. Dad yells at me and tells me to pick up my clothes. Someone hides a box of Little Debbies. Could have been me, I don’t remember. Scott and I talk for an hour or more, staring at ourselves in the mirror. We talk about school, sex, our future, dad’s pressure, Tracy and how we are nothing like her. Mom tells us to be quiet, dad is asleep. I fix my eyeliner, smudging the black.
Scott’s Room
When we were kids: Disney and then covered up by space-theme.
Scott as teenager: Yankees everywhere. The comforter resewed again by my grandma.
Scott and I shared this room. Bunk beds-I had the top. I was afraid the fan would hit me when I climbed up. Lights off. Glow in the dark stars all over the ceiling. Dental floss is tied so it stretches from one end of the room to the other. It’s a zip line for the army men and GI Joes. The blonde guy is my favorite. Baseball trophies and later, track metals hang on the wall and crowd the shelves. The youngest niece spills a bottle of cologne. The smell lingers for months. Scott’s football pads, soaked in the sweat form practices are dumped on the floor. Track cleats and expensive Adidas. Dirty boy smell hits you like a wall when you come in. I light incense and spray Febreeze. Casey replaces Scott on the bed. The whole bottom bunk is hairy. The playpen is set up and one of the kids cries until falling asleep.
Knock Knock. “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” I say. I walk in.
“What?” Scott is packing up things for the weekend, RL Polos, J.Crew pants, and RL bathing suit. He is going to his friend’s lake house.
“Does this look okay?” I hold my arms out a little from my side.
He looks my outfit over, squints his eyes and says, “Yeah, you look fine.”
“Just fine?”
“You going out on a date?” he asks. Another bathing suit is packed-Pac Sun.
“Yeah.”
“You look fine. He is already dating you. You don’t have to look great all the time.”
I sigh. Guy logic. “I want to look good! Whatever. Thanks.” I go in my room and change my shirt. “Is this better?”
“Yeah,” he grins and rolls his eyes.
My Room
Pre-mine: Tracy had it in a Santa Fe theme
Mine: ocean-dolphins, whales, fish mural and now the walls are half yellow, half pink separated by a flower border
A broken window lets the draft in. I sleep next to my older sister during a thunderstorm. BAM BAM BAM. She slams the door and my dad takes it off the hinges as punishment. Jonathan Brandis poster in the closest is still there. I get my own room. Music is always playing. The Little Princess canopy bed dominates the space. A bookcase, half written in journals, movie posters on the walls and ceiling (take forever to get up there), Legolas stand-up, postcards, photos, Japanese wood prints, pop culture lunch boxes, random clippings and pictures. My room is a scrapbook.
I pull out a black top, the one-shoulder red one, and a purple dress. “I like the purple one,” my mom says. “What about this?” I hold out my new green and grey tank top. “Ooo, yes. That one.” I go for the black top instead. Tracy and my mom sit on the bed as I try and get ready for the concert/dinner/date/party. My boyfriend is in here and spends the night when my parents go out of town. The alarm clock goes off three times before I get out of bed. “Are you up?” My mom has “the talk” with me. It’s raining and I feel depressed so I draw the curtains on my bed, light candles, burn incense, and select the “feel like crying” playlist on stereomood.com. My best friend and I take shots of leftover tequila (or vodka) for no reason.
Down the stairs
Scott and I put on our satin pajamas and slide down the carpeted stairs with amazing speed. Casey has chewed on one of the wooden posts. An ex kisses me for the first time. A French fry was in my mouth. Awkward. The railing shakes-design is against Code. I am babysitting and the youngest niece falls down the stairs. I should not have kids.
Playroom
Office
Tracy’s bedroom
Entertainment room
The walls are cream with bright yellow sponged-on paint on top. But I have covered most of the walls with a movie poster collage; Wedding Crashers, Cloverfield, Disturbia, The Strangers, The Ruins, Wanted, I Am Legend, Watchmen. One wall is reserved for Scott’s shrine though. His jersey and other football awards. My dad’s old, wood desk; photos circa 1978-95, huge camera flash, campaign buttons, and bullet shell casings.
Scott and his friends close the door and play XBOX for hours. The whole room smells of them, sweat and bad hygiene. A tournament between my best friend and my brother lasts for an extended amount of time-DC Universe vs. Mortal Combat. Bicycle Kick-Leaping Shadow Kick-Dragon’s Tail-Batarang. Someone comes in the house and steals Oscar (the XBOX). Tracy lets Scott and I watch Schindler’s List. We were too young.
My friend and I find a condom in Tracy’s drawer. Each of the Carvin kids has used this room for dirty deeds. Never told directly, but known. My friend passes out drunk on the futon. Scott is sloshed and locks himself out. Doesn’t want to wake the parents. Climbs through the tiny window, crashing to the floor below.
The Den
The look: Still in its original wood-paneled glory. Now has wood floor and a nautical theme. Couches have been replaced and the big, half-circle chair is gone. (Broken in half)
I hit Scott in the arm.
“You want to go little girl?”
“Uh,” I get in a loose fighting stance, “no.”
He smiles and lunges after me. He wrestles with me briefly before over-powering me.
I scream as Scott lifts me up into the air. “Mom! Do something!”
“Don’t hurt your sister, Scott,” she says while still watching The Bachelor.
He slams me into the couch. I go after him again. Whoosh-he flips me over the couch this time. I never win.
And the third person voted out of Survivor is….my family cheers or grunts disapproval over the now outcast. Survivor then CSI. Tradition. Then we get into LOST. Thank God the whole show wasn’t just a dream. I get uncomfortable watching Pulp Fiction and Fast Times at Ridegmont High with my parents. Tracy and her friend along with my fiends and me put in the VHS of The Exorcist. We all end up on the couch together. My boyfriend and I cuddle up-I force him to see Pretty Woman, he forces Masters of the Universe on me.
A foosball table for Christmas, a dart board on the wall, and a bar built by my dad. The bar has a tile top and metal siding. Strange but unique. I make a drink menu; Whiskey Sour, Screwdriver, Sex on the Beach, Silk Panties, Wench, Cowboy, Skinning Dipping. Everyone watches the Vols game at my dad’s 5oth. We cheer! And then cuss as they steal the game from us. I have a party for friends. Drunken specialty Jenga, Kings, flip cup and beer pong. The most sober win. Scott makes out with a girl. Awkward talk until we all fall asleep. Drunken confessions.
We stand by the fireplace, warming up after playing in the snow for hours. Socks and gloves dry out. Mom puts a marshmallow on a stick and we eat smores. The Grinch and NL’s Christmas Vacation play every year. We laugh as if we haven’t seen it before.
The Front Door
Sometimes there is a wreath and bright lights frame its border. And sometimes there is a cardboard vampire hanging. But usually it’s just blue. Casey stands behind the glass inner door. Her nose prints make the glass dirty. The wood door is creaky, like it should be. Greetings and goodbyes. I have gone in and out of this door too many times to count. Huge furniture has been carried through here and the yearly Blue Spruce. Dad snaps photographs as we stand in front of the door-Smile!-it’s Easter, graduation day, prom night, the father-daughter dance.
It’s closed. Locked. It will always keep my memories safely contained. But now I can move on and smile when I remember. This was my home.
