Swaying daises sing a lazy song beneath the sun
I took my dogs for a few walks through the backyard today. The ground soft from all the overturned soil from what I assume are various assortments of hibernating animals but I really don't think I paid enough attention or have a good enough memory to remember which animals hibernate and how they do so. The leaves and grass on top were crispy from being frozen and thawed a few too many times. Even though my fingers and toes were frozen and I was wearing a coat that was far too large to actually keep me warm, when I picked my head up from stepping over mole hills and looked at all the naked trees I smelled something that reminded me of my childhood. I moved into this house when I was about 1 year old. My dad built this house by himself. My mom bought the property and got the building loan and rented a trailer for my dad to stay in during the construction. At the time we had a loft in Detroit where my dad stayed when he had to work overtime at GM Creative Services. My parents were renting a farmhouse in Milford where they had a bunch of rescued animals. A few old horses, some unwanted goat, rabbits (which my dad butchered every season to feed us), and chickens (who acted as bait for the foxes that my mom would shoot and skin for their fur).
So my dad, his 4 brothers and his father would converge on the trailer after work, and after a few beers and a few lines the building would commence. With a few minor set backs; my dad putting the claw end of a hammer into his eye, and the house flooding after the sub floor was set causing my dad to brilliantly decide to cut holes in the floor and never patch them, some shady electrical work, and I'm sure some things I haven't been told about, we had a house. When my dad lived here the house was pristine. He chose white walls and white carpet in every room and aside from our ugly orange floral couches the house was pristine. Always clean. Dad woke me up every morning before with the smell of the strongest black coffee, a kiss on the forehead, and a "wake me up before you go-go" whisper in my ear. The most important part was that our record player never had a speck of dust on it. After taking my afternoon nap I would wake up to the sounds of the WXYZ Channel 7 news and the voice of Diana Lewis. I knew this meant dad would be home soon. We would watch the news while he made dinner and by the time we sat down to eat there would be a record in the player and a family meal.
All of the happiness ended just a few short years later but I will always remember being a baby in my dad's backpack as he would take my sister on an every weekend hike around our property. It felt so big and my dad would whistle and sing us songs. It was usually the Beatles. On our hikes he would sing "born a poor young country boy, mother nature's son..." and at night he would sing to my sister with her "Rocky the Raccoon" Raccoon puppet.
I can remember being a baby in his backpack and I have to thank him for those memories that I know can be accessed by stepping into the yard where I used to get bundled in a little purple snowsuit and sled down the "hill" in my backyard that to the full-sized me is hard to even spot.
So my dad, his 4 brothers and his father would converge on the trailer after work, and after a few beers and a few lines the building would commence. With a few minor set backs; my dad putting the claw end of a hammer into his eye, and the house flooding after the sub floor was set causing my dad to brilliantly decide to cut holes in the floor and never patch them, some shady electrical work, and I'm sure some things I haven't been told about, we had a house. When my dad lived here the house was pristine. He chose white walls and white carpet in every room and aside from our ugly orange floral couches the house was pristine. Always clean. Dad woke me up every morning before with the smell of the strongest black coffee, a kiss on the forehead, and a "wake me up before you go-go" whisper in my ear. The most important part was that our record player never had a speck of dust on it. After taking my afternoon nap I would wake up to the sounds of the WXYZ Channel 7 news and the voice of Diana Lewis. I knew this meant dad would be home soon. We would watch the news while he made dinner and by the time we sat down to eat there would be a record in the player and a family meal.
All of the happiness ended just a few short years later but I will always remember being a baby in my dad's backpack as he would take my sister on an every weekend hike around our property. It felt so big and my dad would whistle and sing us songs. It was usually the Beatles. On our hikes he would sing "born a poor young country boy, mother nature's son..." and at night he would sing to my sister with her "Rocky the Raccoon" Raccoon puppet.
I can remember being a baby in his backpack and I have to thank him for those memories that I know can be accessed by stepping into the yard where I used to get bundled in a little purple snowsuit and sled down the "hill" in my backyard that to the full-sized me is hard to even spot.