Too damn hard. It's not bad enough that I had some horrible luck and lost ALL of my college portfolio, but now my backup hard drive is giving me issues.
Sure, I got in some pretty good essays this semester. They probably all suck, at the same time. The only class I know I did well in was my Expository Writing class with Fleming (in terms of English, that is). That actually got me going and writing some pretty extensive and challenging bits. I'm hoping that I can turn those into something that can be published. I won't reveal TOO much on the matter, but there are some pretty good pieces. My favorite one...well, I'm saving that one for another time. But here's a revised version of my first piece from the beginning of Fall 2012.
I've also had the chance to get in some really good sections and bits. For those of you who'e read anything from my Salina Edwards series, there's a lot of changes that the story's going through in terms of characters and story development. Arcturus is no longer so sweet and sensual...Salina's got some pretty dark history happening, too. But we don't see a lot of her story until the second book. Then the whole Arcturus bit...let's just say I've given him more of a voice in my books. Know what that means? Well, if you don't, you will. For those who get it...get excited.
My Family's Escape
Before the Civil
War, Jacob Gehrett rolled up his shirtsleeves to build a house and adjoining
shop in Orbisonia, Pennsylvania. He was a gunsmith, like his father John, and
prospered in his business. When the war came about, he fought like many a brave
soldier. However, unlike many of those said soldiers, he returned home to his
family and the Gehrett legacy continued.
A
hundred and fifty years later, his shop has been torn down and in its place
stands an old, dilapidated home that was abandoned years ago. On the other side
of where Jacob built his house is a rundown hotel that houses an antique shop.
It displays items behind glass windows so dirty it’s as if a fog plagues the
building. The old town is obviously beginning to decay.
You
would think that perhaps the house would be, too. However, even after over a
century, Jacob’s former home still stands. Its upkeep is credited to his
ancestors, and their will to keep a piece of history in the family. I can’t
even count the number of hands the house has passed down to. Several names have
reached my ears from Gehrett, to Dodson, to Stevenson, to Bechtold. As of
today, my grandparents are the current caretakers. While in their hands, the
house has hosted many stays from May through November. In the past, before I
was ever born, Easters were held there, cramping many of the Bechtolds under a
tiny roof. It has been an oasis, a quiet escape, and one of our best-kept
secrets for several generations. As my cousins and I have grown older, the
family infrequently seems to return since many other places are more sought
after for vacationing. But it still stands strong and ready to welcome us
whenever we arrive.
Now,
in the twenty-first century, the house has newer, shingled siding and a brand
new, tin roof that echoes with the sound of rainfall in the hot summers. It
smells of a sweet, earthy history as you walk through the front door, something
I’ve never been able to find anywhere else. The furniture is older; the most
modern thing is the television that dates back, probably, to the eighties. In
the living room, a working Victrola sits at the base of the stairs with its
mint condition records hidden within. The past summer my family and I visited
the house, and we played some of Aunt Maude’s records featuring an Italian
orchestra. As my parents and I ate breakfast in the kitchen, which houses a
fully functional General Electric refrigerator from the fifties, muffled music
floated into us from the adjacent room. I hadn’t felt so happy all summer as I
did that morning.
I
love that house. Small as it seems on the outside, it has three bedrooms, and
could have more. The door handles are old latches that lift when you turn the
knob, and the doors stick from coats of paint layered on after years of wear
and tear. There’s no air conditioning, so the place can be a sauna with the
windows closed. Even on the right night, as a cool breeze floats in, it can be
so stifling that there’s no chance of shutting the windows when the neighbors
across the street are still screaming at two in the morning.
In
the room I usually sleep in, I can look out one of my windows to see the roof
of our tiny porch and the Methodist social hall across the street. Years ago, I
invited my best friend, Gina, to enjoy the simplicity of that place. On a whim,
while my parents had walked the half-mile to the only grocery store in town, I
crawled out of the window and sat on top of the porch. Barefoot and smiling
silly, I waved at the women exiting the hall as they stared up at me with
expressions that clearly said, “My god, who is that crazy child?” later that
night, Gina and I sat up in our room getting sugar rushes from cream soda and
cranberry juice as we laughed and yelled greetings out the window to
unsuspecting passerby, the elderly home next to the church hall, and stray cats
wandering about under the streetlights.
The
house gives constant reminders to its visitors that there is always something
new to discover. Secrets and pranks have been hidden in closets and crevices
over the years, much like a Playboy puzzle I once found that had been given to
my grandfather as a gag gift. One of these reminders, and my favorite part
about the house, is the Secret Room, which is adjacent to mine. It has low
ceilings and needs serious renovations. My grandmother keeps some of the more
rundown furniture in there to store things like linens and old marbles; other
than that it’s never used. When Gina and I had been there, we hid old bits of
paper in the wall’s deteriorating plaster. Last summer, I rediscovered them
and, feeling nostalgic, brought the rolled up pieces home with me. At first
glance, it looks like there’s nothing special about the Secret Room, except
that it might be haunted; it surely looks like it could be. However, a short,
steep staircase leads precariously down to a doorway that opens out into the
kitchen. That is why I love the room; I’m able to make my grand entrance in the
morning from a doorway that no one else can use.
With
so much history in the house, and even the area itself, it’s hard to believe it
could ever get boring. The cemetery on the hill, which is the best place in
town to watch a sunset, is home to some of our relatives, Jacob Gehrett and his
father included. My parents and I have walked the graves, dating back to the
1800’s, numerous times. I now know the location of each ancestor’s home beneath
the wormy earth, where they can always enjoy a sunset that I, for years, have
cherished.
A
past time in our family is to sit on the back porch and watch the townies go in
and out of the only eatery in tow, a pizza place that’s been there for ages
where patrons watch the Saturday night Nittany Lions games instead of the
Philadelphia Eagles. From the porch, there’s also a clear view of the only
stoplight in town and the firehouse. Last summer, I visited Orby, as the locals
call it, with my grandparents and cousins. We spent an evening enjoying our
family pastime while eating cheese and sipping cool beverages as the darkness
descended on us that warm night. I sat next to my cousin Kate who, despite
being eight years my senior, is one of my best friends. I was her bridesmaid
later that summer, and she and I were always as close as sister. As such, she
played the part quite well as my role model and instigator. She dared me to
talk to one of the local firemen as he jogged over to the firehouse.
“Why
don’t you go over and talk to him?” she asked in her sly, teasing voice with
the hinted suggestion that I, as single woman, may find a young, potentially
single man interesting.
I
gave her a look that said I clearly wasn’t, but the challenge had been laid
before me, “You want me to talk to him?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll
do it.”
“Go
right ahead, I dare ya.”
It’s
known in my family that I want to be a firefighter like my grandfather at some
point in my life, so I figured that I’d at least have something to talk about. To Kate’s surprise, I took the dare. I
jogged over to the guy as he stood in front of the fire trucks and struck up a
conversation.
“Hey,
I saw you jogging around, and, since I’m from out of town, I was wondering if
you knew any good routes to run.”
He
seemed surprised at my sudden appearance, but obliged nonetheless, “Uh, nothing
much, really. About the best you can do is about three miles.”
I
was looking for something closer to five, but I didn’t really care. What I
wanted to talk about was the fire department. As I chatted him up, I learned that
his name was Anthony and about how the department was all volunteer
firefighting. The small facility kept going only because of the hard work and
fundraising that the squad put in. It wasn’t the most exciting thing in the
world, but it was necessary and a rightful duty to the community. Shortly
after, his mother showed up; she was also on the squad. All three of us got
into talking about how it was something I wanted to do. She even pulled her
gear out of her car and let me try it on, the heaviness of the material and the
oxygen tank weighing me down. After getting past the initial embarrassment of
her overwhelming kindness, I felt proud and ready to take on the task; I knew
that this was something I could do.
We
talked for a good hour, probably, and I exchanged heartfelt thanks and goodbyes
with them before turning back to the house. It was so dark, at this point, that
I couldn’t even see my family as they sat under the roof of the back porch.
However, the whole time I had talked to them, I could feel their ever-watchful
stares on my back; it was a wonder that my ears hadn’t turned red.
“I
can’t believe you did that!” Kate said as I returned to my seat next to her.
“What?
You told me to!”
“Yeah,
but I didn’t actually think you’d do it!”
“Esther’s
got herself a boyfriend,” her fiancée, Rob, said from her other side.
My
grandparents merely teased me lightly about whether or not I was interested in
that young fireman. I merely told them that we talked about the job, nothing
more, but they acted as if they didn’t believe me. To this day, I haven’t heard
the end of it.
If
I’m not spending time with my family, watch or chatting up locals, there is
always the run or walk around town. Anthony was right in saying that there
weren’t really many places to go. The town’s so small that you can run around
the circumference of Orbisonia and its neighbor, Rockhill, in less time than it
takes to walk across UMass from one end to another. Both towns together are
less than four miles around. Even when I loop through many of the streets, all
the while catching glimpses of some of the more backwoods-style homes and their
residents, I don’t even hit the five-mile mark. It’s nice when I go for walks
after dinner to see the East Broadtop, as I have done many times before alone
and with my family. The old station still runs a coal train during certain
times of the year. As a child my parents took me on it, where I eagerly stuck
my head out the window to get a better glimpse of the countryside. I managed to
get a clear view of the engine before its ashes flew into my eyes; I still had
a wonderful time.
Sadly,
there’s always the end of a trip to Orbisonia; the stay is never long enough. I
dread what will happen after my grandparents pass because nobody seems to want
the responsibility of the property, save for Kate and myself. The house that
holds so many memories may either fill to the brim with more or fall into the
hands of strangers. I enjoy my short, summer stays there and the simplicity of
escaping to a small town that no one has ever heard of. The town needs a bit of
touching up, but the neighbors are friendly, and the house is always a
welcoming beacon. For as long as I can remember, on a drive of what seems to be
endless amounts of highway and back road routes, over the Susquehanna River,
and through the rolling, green hills and towering cornstalks, I have traveled
far to return to a place that will forever be a part of me, and a part of my
childhood.
No comments:
Post a Comment