Sometimes I laugh at myself when I think back to my perceptions of the world as a child; the way I saw certain situations or people. What was I thinking? It wasn't really like I saw it at all.
When I was younger, I visited my father in Cincinnati during the weekends. He made certain that the visit was action-packed, full of trips to the zoo, museums, Graeter's Ice Cream stores, and antique shops. During one visit with him, he told me that he had moved to a new apartment; although he referred to it as The Carriage House.
Dad explained to me that his new apartment was essentially the place where horse carriages were once stored. I was uneasy with this idea. Why was my father living in a horse stable? We drove through an old Cincinnati neighborhood, pulled into the alley and made a left into the large double door opening. As I walked up the stairs, I could see different herbs tied with a simple string, hanging upside down to dry on the wall. When we entered the apartment, I noticed that it was full of windows and not much else. Dad had one bathroom, one bedroom, one kitchen and one living room.
Later that evening, I looked for things to occupy my time. I looked for a TV, but Dad didn't have one. I looked for a tape player to play my new Sundays cassette. He didn't have one. I looked out the window for other children my age. All I could see was a Popeye's Chicken. I thumbed through my stepmom's old records. I didn't recognize many of the artists, until I came to Abbey Road. I had to position the needle on the dusty record several times to try to find "Here Comes the Sun"; which I never found. So, I settled on "Maxwell's Silver Hammer". By the end of the song, I could see how old Maxwell could murder someone with a hammer. Three hours in this joint, and I was looking for an anvil, a brick, or a meat tenderizer to knock myself over the head.
I lay down on the air mattress Dad put out for me in the living room floor. I scanned the room again: wooden chairs, simple sofa, tiny end tables, books, a few pictures, and house plants. No TV. My dad is poor. He has to grow his own herbs, his furniture is old, he can't afford a TV, and he lives in a barn. I cried myself to sleep.
The next time my mom said something negative to me about my dad, I let her have it! I told her about the horse stable and that he can't even afford a TV. She looked at me puzzled. Then she laughed a huge belly laugh. She said "Iris, living in a Carriage House is the Yuppie thing to do! That's what people are doing now-restoring historic properties and living in them!" I was actually relieved that my mother had revealed the truth to me; that he wasn't really poor. My mom probably got a little pleasure out of calling him a "Yuppie", too.
As I grew older, my father's lifestyle was no longer "puzzling" to me. As I read more books, visited new places, and talked to new people, I understood that my father not having a TV had nothing to do with his socio-economic status. He didn't seek solace in the "boob tube" like mainstream folk. He read books, The New York Times, grew organic, composted and sat on antiques in his historic home. Sure, he referred to the passing of 2Pac as the death of Two Pack Shaker. He had never heard his name on the news; only read it in the newspaper. Yes, I catch him out at dinner, staring at the restaurant's flat screen TV as if it is a spaceship. But, when I hear my children ask me if I have "ever suffered heart attack, stroke or cerebral bleeding as a result of taking the prescription drug Plavix", I want to scoop them up, take them straight to that little Carriage House, find Abbey Road, sit in the windowsill and just listen to "Here Comes the Sun".
When I was younger, I visited my father in Cincinnati during the weekends. He made certain that the visit was action-packed, full of trips to the zoo, museums, Graeter's Ice Cream stores, and antique shops. During one visit with him, he told me that he had moved to a new apartment; although he referred to it as The Carriage House.
Dad explained to me that his new apartment was essentially the place where horse carriages were once stored. I was uneasy with this idea. Why was my father living in a horse stable? We drove through an old Cincinnati neighborhood, pulled into the alley and made a left into the large double door opening. As I walked up the stairs, I could see different herbs tied with a simple string, hanging upside down to dry on the wall. When we entered the apartment, I noticed that it was full of windows and not much else. Dad had one bathroom, one bedroom, one kitchen and one living room.
Later that evening, I looked for things to occupy my time. I looked for a TV, but Dad didn't have one. I looked for a tape player to play my new Sundays cassette. He didn't have one. I looked out the window for other children my age. All I could see was a Popeye's Chicken. I thumbed through my stepmom's old records. I didn't recognize many of the artists, until I came to Abbey Road. I had to position the needle on the dusty record several times to try to find "Here Comes the Sun"; which I never found. So, I settled on "Maxwell's Silver Hammer". By the end of the song, I could see how old Maxwell could murder someone with a hammer. Three hours in this joint, and I was looking for an anvil, a brick, or a meat tenderizer to knock myself over the head.
I lay down on the air mattress Dad put out for me in the living room floor. I scanned the room again: wooden chairs, simple sofa, tiny end tables, books, a few pictures, and house plants. No TV. My dad is poor. He has to grow his own herbs, his furniture is old, he can't afford a TV, and he lives in a barn. I cried myself to sleep.
The next time my mom said something negative to me about my dad, I let her have it! I told her about the horse stable and that he can't even afford a TV. She looked at me puzzled. Then she laughed a huge belly laugh. She said "Iris, living in a Carriage House is the Yuppie thing to do! That's what people are doing now-restoring historic properties and living in them!" I was actually relieved that my mother had revealed the truth to me; that he wasn't really poor. My mom probably got a little pleasure out of calling him a "Yuppie", too.
As I grew older, my father's lifestyle was no longer "puzzling" to me. As I read more books, visited new places, and talked to new people, I understood that my father not having a TV had nothing to do with his socio-economic status. He didn't seek solace in the "boob tube" like mainstream folk. He read books, The New York Times, grew organic, composted and sat on antiques in his historic home. Sure, he referred to the passing of 2Pac as the death of Two Pack Shaker. He had never heard his name on the news; only read it in the newspaper. Yes, I catch him out at dinner, staring at the restaurant's flat screen TV as if it is a spaceship. But, when I hear my children ask me if I have "ever suffered heart attack, stroke or cerebral bleeding as a result of taking the prescription drug Plavix", I want to scoop them up, take them straight to that little Carriage House, find Abbey Road, sit in the windowsill and just listen to "Here Comes the Sun".
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