The Red House

I had a dream last night. I was in the house that we grew up in, the red one that burned down in Pawlet. Each room had layers and layers of wallpaper coating the walls, and I was looking for a specific one, cream background with brown illustrations of ladies in hoop dresses. There were so many different patterns, and I was peeling them back to find the one I was looking for. In our bedroom, (all three of us shared one little room) I peeled and peeled until I got to the last layer and it was A.A. Milne style portraits of we three girls.

The red house. What a stock pile of memories. The laundry room that was unfinished and the insulation was always coming out of the walls. The bathroom where I first learned about what sex was from a porno mag kept under the sink. The kitchen where I found little Soe Woe having a convulsion and I ran to tell Mummy "Soe's doing something funny on the kitchen floor and she won't stop!" The living room where the record player and my treasured collection lived: Willie Nelson, Donna Summer, Don Francisco, Captain Beaky. I would steal Emmy's beautiful flowery dress that was too small for me, put it on and dance till I got caught and was told to take it off. The living room that housed the potbellied iron wood stove, the table and settle, the picture of weather vanes. This room was the background for our family portrait right before Mummy took us away to England, because she'd finally had enough of living the life of the wife of a drunk. The back shed, where the wood was kept, and the laundry was hung. When the river flooded one year, all the nappies that hung on the line were whisked away to the dam. And the upstairs. When you stepped up the front steps onto the porch, there was a door. When you went through the door, there was another door on your right that led to where we lived, but there were stairs on the left. These led to the "attic". I remember going up there only once, and it was one big huge room the size of our entire house. And it was full of light, owing to the tall, broken windows that lined every side. One big, empty room full of light and the wooden floor was carpeted with broken glass and bird poop. No mystery, no darkness, nothing. One pure place on top of our house.

And our bedroom. Papa made my bed and it had no mattress. I liked sleeping on the hard wood, it reminded me of being a cowboy and sleeping on the ground. I had one doll and her name was Victoria. I had to give her to Emmy at one point, and I believe that this was the first strand in a long rope of resentment that held us for many years. But we would play with her together sometimes. We pierced Victoria's ears at least eight times in each ear.

And Mummy & Papa's bedroom, where I could spend hours in her wedding dress, and going through the plastic bag that was full of treasures, all the gold and silver from England, a constant reminder that although we were very poor, we sprang from wealth and nobility. In this very room, my mother told me many years after the fact, an angel stayed her hand from an awful deed that seemed like the only answer for a woman at the end of her rope. The rope that had held her together for so many years of struggle, disappointment, betrayal finally snapped, and the one time that she was capable of committing an evil act, mystery stepped in and saved us all.

I was on the loo at Marston Magna Manor, the one by the kitchen with the water container up above and you had to pull the chain down to flush. "Papa burned the house down!" I remember talking to him on the phone, but I don't know what we said. We'd been in England for 6 months, I was growing fond of exploring the haunts and nooks of Marston, my little school where we had to wear a uniform and a tie. Gaffa's garage with his old cars and various projects. All of the grand old rooms filled with the family's antique furniture, a life of heritage and history, a solid sense of who we were.

But Papa burned the house down and found Jesus, and we were moving back to Vermont. Mummy decided to give him one more chance.

Good thing.