Memory Lane-Scape
by Maddie Seiler
Flames crackle merrily in the fireplace, bathing the room in a shimmery, golden light. Outside, snow flutters down from the heavens, drifting into piles outside my door. I sit in a cozy, rocking chair by the fire, my eyes scanning page after page of the novel in which I have become engrossed. My ancient cat, Socks, is curled on my lap, purring and my living room looks like that of a cover on a cheery, winter card.
The door bangs open and Socks is startled off the chair at the sound (and sight) of my rowdy, seven year old neighbor, Libby, whom, I might point out isn’t the most gentle of creatures when it comes to handling pets. Socks, who has had personal experience with the fearsome tail-puller, makes himself scarce. I mark my place, set the novel on my coffee table and stand to greet Libby.
“Auntie Cora!” Libby cries, scampering across my living room carpet in her snow-caked boots to launch herself into my arms. (Although Libby and I aren’t related, she has taken to calling me Auntie, a title I hadn’t had the privilege to use before.)
Libby’s parents are right behind her already mumbling apologies.
“So sorry to bother you, Cornelia,” her father says, “A family issue came up you see and we have to leave town a few hours. I’m afraid it’s urgent and unavoidable.”
“Oh Libby! Take your shoes off please!” Her mother fusses. “Don’t get snow all over Ms. Nelson’s living room!”
“It’s fine, dears,” I tell them, reassuringly. “It’s no hassle at all, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson and you needn’t worry about my carpet, Joyce; I’m afraid it’s seen much worse than a little snow.
“Well… alright… if you say so,” Joyce Anderson says hesitantly.
“Now you go on ahead and attend to your family business and Libby and I will have a wonderful evening together,” I assure them.
We all turn to look at Libby who has already managed to locate Socks and drag him out from underneath the sofa.
“Libby, behave yourself,” her father instructs.
“I know, Daddy,” Libby says sweetly. She puts Socks down for a moment and wraps her skinny arms around her father’s middle. “Good bye, Mommy!”
While the three exchange a quick goodbye, Socks takes the opportunity to scamper into the kitchen and out of sight in search of a “Libby-proof” hiding place.
Libby pecks each of her parents on the cheek and obediently tugs off her boots.
“Guess what, Auntie Cora?” She chirps skipping into the kitchen to search for Socks. Before I even get a chance to guess, she’s already telling me. “I think Mommy and Daddy are going to the city!”
“Oh, really?” I say in mock surprise.
“Uh-huh!” She quips. “I’ve been to the city before once!”
“Have you, now?”
“Yeah, and the buildings were reeeeeally huge!” She reaches her hands up as high as she can to show me just how huge. “And there were a looooooot of people there too!”
“What kind of people,” I ask her as she reaches for Socks’ tail, which is sticking out from under the table.
“Oh, all kinds! There were little babies and old people and white skinned people and brown skinned people and people dressed all fancy and people all plain…” she trails off in thought. “And there was one man, Auntie Cora, who stood at the corner, holding a sign. I asked Daddy what it said and he just told me that the man didn’t have a home and needed a job.”
“A bum,” I say.
“Auntie Cora!” gasps Libby, shocked. “That’s not a very nice-”
“No, Libby,” I say, “That’s what they were called when I was growing up.
“Oooohhhhhhhh,” Libby says. “Did you ever talk to one before?”
“Yes, Libby. Yes I did. In fact, I knew one.”
Libby’s eyes are wide and her mouth forms the shape of an O. “You knew one?”
“Mmmhmm…” I say, watching her rock a squirming Socks in her arms like a baby. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you put Socks down and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“You mean like a story?”
“Exactly like a story.”
She takes my hand and leads me into the living room, over to my rocking chair. I sit and she clambers up into my lap.
“Okay, Auntie Cora, I’m ready for the story now.”
“This happened a looooong time ago, when I was a little girl,” I tell her. “I was about your age and-”
“You mean when your hair wasn’t all white and you didn’t have wrinkles on your face?” Libby interrupts.
“Exactly. In fact, I looked a lot like you do, except my hair was red, not brown. Libby, did I ever tell you how I got that picture?” I point across the living room to a beautiful winter landscape that hangs on the wall.
“No…” Libby says, curiously.
“I’ve had that for a very long time.” I begin again. “When I was a little girl, homeless people who needed a job were called bums. They use to help people around the house in exchange for food…”
The story begins to flow from my lips and suddenly, I am six years old again.
My father, mother, and I are standing in the living room of our house along with a stranger.
“Cornelia,” my mother is saying to me, “This is Eldon, and he’s going to be helping us out here at the house for a little while until he can get back on his feet.”
I don’t quite understand what she means by “back on his feet” because the man seems to have no trouble standing there, but think that maybe him “helping around the house” is equivelant to him cleaning my room, so I don’t ask questions.
Later that evening, as I begin to set the table (because apparently that isn’t included in what Eldon will be doing around the house) Mama tells me to set an extra place, one for Eldon.
The same thing happens the next day at breakfast, and then again at lunch. Eldon begins to join us for every meal, doing whatever chores Mama can think up in the time between: sweeping the floor, dusting the furniture, and never tidying up my bedroom. Every night, he disappears, only to show up ready and willing the next day. (More often than not, in the same faded overcoat as the day before)
One day, I come home from school to find Eldon sitting at the table next to my little brother, Abram with a box of crayons in between them, hard at work.
I peer over Abram’s shoulder to find what I can only assume to be an unfinished person, or a knotted up snake, but when I glance at Eldon’s drawing a lush green forest stares back at me. Sunlight glistens through the trees and a stream winds its way off the page.
“Eldon, it’s beautiful!” I whisper.
He turns to give me a crooked-toothed grin before getting back to work on the expansive blue sky.
That evening, I tell Mama and Papa about Eldon’s drawing and convince him to show them.
“Why, Eldon!” Mama exclaims. “That’s… that’s… that’s…”
“You sure have some talent there, Eldon!” Dad says clapping Eldon on the back.
“Can we hang it up somewhere?” I ask eagerly.
The next day, Eldon’s forest is on display on the wall in our living room.
The day after, there’s another drawing next to it, and pretty soon, the entire wall is covered in drawings Eldon made with Abram’s crayons and Eldon’s job description is changed from assisting with the odds and ends chores to artist and wall art designer.
One day, I stand before the wall of his masterpieces, gawking at each one. I feel his rough hands on my shoulders and turn around.
“Which is your favorite?” he asks me.
My eyes sweep over each and every drawing before coming to rest on a serene winter landscape, one of the first he had drawn.
“That one.” I point.
“Then it is yours,” Eldon says simply.
He carefully lifts it from its spot on the wall and places it into my outstretched hands.
“Thank you!” I grin up at him and his eyes twinkle.
That evening, I hang the drawing in my room, right over my bed where I’ll see it every day. I can’t wait to show Eldon in the morning.
The sun finally bathes the earth in light and I am up out of bed, eager to show Eldon what I’ve done with his landscape. But Eldon doesn’t come. The next day arrives without him too.
After a week, I grow impatient.
“Daddy,” I ask, “Where’s Eldon?”
“I don’t know, Corrie.” He says. “I really don’t know.”
Months roll by and the realization dawns on me that Eldon isn’t coming back.
My family keeps his wall of artwork up for a few years, but in time, his drawings come down. The chores he had taken over are evenly distributed to members of the family, and almost as quickly as Eldon had come, he is gone, almost as if he’d never been there in the first place. But my winter landscape says otherwise.
“Auntie Cora?” Libby’s voice snaps me back to the present.
“Yes, child?” I whisper
“But… what ever happened to Eldon?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her, echoing my father. “I never saw him again. Sometimes I think about him, wonder where he is now. I imagine he became an artist somewhere and made thousands of winter landscapes for thousands of people.”
“I think he would like that.” Libby says, yawning. “But your landscape will always be the first.”
“Yes it will, Libby,” I murmur, “Yes it will.”
We sit there in silence for a long time rocking back and forth. I stare into the landscape and remember Eldon. When I glance down at Libby, I find her fast asleep in my arms.
Late in the night my door creaks open once again, revealing Libby’s parents, but Libby doesn’t stir.
“Thank you so much, Cornelia,” her father whispers, gathering Libby into his arms.
“I trust she wasn’t too much of a problem, was she?” Her mother asks.
“Not at all,” I smile. “She was an angel.”
Libby’s mother catches me gazing in thought at Eldon’s drawing.
“Oh what a lovely painting that is!” She breathes.
“Indeed. You should ask your daughter about it sometime.”
Mrs. Anderson gives me a rather queer look before following Mr. Anderson and a snoring Libby out of the room, closing the door behind them.
Socks’ face peeps around the corner from the dining room and upon finding a Libby-free environment, strides across the room and leaps into my lap once again. I resume my novel and the whole room goes back to the way it was, as though Libby had never been there in the first place. But Socks’ slightly ruffled fur and the faint outlines of snowy footprints on my carpet say otherwise.
by Maddie Seiler
Flames crackle merrily in the fireplace, bathing the room in a shimmery, golden light. Outside, snow flutters down from the heavens, drifting into piles outside my door. I sit in a cozy, rocking chair by the fire, my eyes scanning page after page of the novel in which I have become engrossed. My ancient cat, Socks, is curled on my lap, purring and my living room looks like that of a cover on a cheery, winter card.
The door bangs open and Socks is startled off the chair at the sound (and sight) of my rowdy, seven year old neighbor, Libby, whom, I might point out isn’t the most gentle of creatures when it comes to handling pets. Socks, who has had personal experience with the fearsome tail-puller, makes himself scarce. I mark my place, set the novel on my coffee table and stand to greet Libby.
“Auntie Cora!” Libby cries, scampering across my living room carpet in her snow-caked boots to launch herself into my arms. (Although Libby and I aren’t related, she has taken to calling me Auntie, a title I hadn’t had the privilege to use before.)
Libby’s parents are right behind her already mumbling apologies.
“So sorry to bother you, Cornelia,” her father says, “A family issue came up you see and we have to leave town a few hours. I’m afraid it’s urgent and unavoidable.”
“Oh Libby! Take your shoes off please!” Her mother fusses. “Don’t get snow all over Ms. Nelson’s living room!”
“It’s fine, dears,” I tell them, reassuringly. “It’s no hassle at all, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson and you needn’t worry about my carpet, Joyce; I’m afraid it’s seen much worse than a little snow.
“Well… alright… if you say so,” Joyce Anderson says hesitantly.
“Now you go on ahead and attend to your family business and Libby and I will have a wonderful evening together,” I assure them.
We all turn to look at Libby who has already managed to locate Socks and drag him out from underneath the sofa.
“Libby, behave yourself,” her father instructs.
“I know, Daddy,” Libby says sweetly. She puts Socks down for a moment and wraps her skinny arms around her father’s middle. “Good bye, Mommy!”
While the three exchange a quick goodbye, Socks takes the opportunity to scamper into the kitchen and out of sight in search of a “Libby-proof” hiding place.
Libby pecks each of her parents on the cheek and obediently tugs off her boots.
“Guess what, Auntie Cora?” She chirps skipping into the kitchen to search for Socks. Before I even get a chance to guess, she’s already telling me. “I think Mommy and Daddy are going to the city!”
“Oh, really?” I say in mock surprise.
“Uh-huh!” She quips. “I’ve been to the city before once!”
“Have you, now?”
“Yeah, and the buildings were reeeeeally huge!” She reaches her hands up as high as she can to show me just how huge. “And there were a looooooot of people there too!”
“What kind of people,” I ask her as she reaches for Socks’ tail, which is sticking out from under the table.
“Oh, all kinds! There were little babies and old people and white skinned people and brown skinned people and people dressed all fancy and people all plain…” she trails off in thought. “And there was one man, Auntie Cora, who stood at the corner, holding a sign. I asked Daddy what it said and he just told me that the man didn’t have a home and needed a job.”
“A bum,” I say.
“Auntie Cora!” gasps Libby, shocked. “That’s not a very nice-”
“No, Libby,” I say, “That’s what they were called when I was growing up.
“Oooohhhhhhhh,” Libby says. “Did you ever talk to one before?”
“Yes, Libby. Yes I did. In fact, I knew one.”
Libby’s eyes are wide and her mouth forms the shape of an O. “You knew one?”
“Mmmhmm…” I say, watching her rock a squirming Socks in her arms like a baby. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you put Socks down and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“You mean like a story?”
“Exactly like a story.”
She takes my hand and leads me into the living room, over to my rocking chair. I sit and she clambers up into my lap.
“Okay, Auntie Cora, I’m ready for the story now.”
“This happened a looooong time ago, when I was a little girl,” I tell her. “I was about your age and-”
“You mean when your hair wasn’t all white and you didn’t have wrinkles on your face?” Libby interrupts.
“Exactly. In fact, I looked a lot like you do, except my hair was red, not brown. Libby, did I ever tell you how I got that picture?” I point across the living room to a beautiful winter landscape that hangs on the wall.
“No…” Libby says, curiously.
“I’ve had that for a very long time.” I begin again. “When I was a little girl, homeless people who needed a job were called bums. They use to help people around the house in exchange for food…”
The story begins to flow from my lips and suddenly, I am six years old again.
My father, mother, and I are standing in the living room of our house along with a stranger.
“Cornelia,” my mother is saying to me, “This is Eldon, and he’s going to be helping us out here at the house for a little while until he can get back on his feet.”
I don’t quite understand what she means by “back on his feet” because the man seems to have no trouble standing there, but think that maybe him “helping around the house” is equivelant to him cleaning my room, so I don’t ask questions.
Later that evening, as I begin to set the table (because apparently that isn’t included in what Eldon will be doing around the house) Mama tells me to set an extra place, one for Eldon.
The same thing happens the next day at breakfast, and then again at lunch. Eldon begins to join us for every meal, doing whatever chores Mama can think up in the time between: sweeping the floor, dusting the furniture, and never tidying up my bedroom. Every night, he disappears, only to show up ready and willing the next day. (More often than not, in the same faded overcoat as the day before)
One day, I come home from school to find Eldon sitting at the table next to my little brother, Abram with a box of crayons in between them, hard at work.
I peer over Abram’s shoulder to find what I can only assume to be an unfinished person, or a knotted up snake, but when I glance at Eldon’s drawing a lush green forest stares back at me. Sunlight glistens through the trees and a stream winds its way off the page.
“Eldon, it’s beautiful!” I whisper.
He turns to give me a crooked-toothed grin before getting back to work on the expansive blue sky.
That evening, I tell Mama and Papa about Eldon’s drawing and convince him to show them.
“Why, Eldon!” Mama exclaims. “That’s… that’s… that’s…”
“You sure have some talent there, Eldon!” Dad says clapping Eldon on the back.
“Can we hang it up somewhere?” I ask eagerly.
The next day, Eldon’s forest is on display on the wall in our living room.
The day after, there’s another drawing next to it, and pretty soon, the entire wall is covered in drawings Eldon made with Abram’s crayons and Eldon’s job description is changed from assisting with the odds and ends chores to artist and wall art designer.
One day, I stand before the wall of his masterpieces, gawking at each one. I feel his rough hands on my shoulders and turn around.
“Which is your favorite?” he asks me.
My eyes sweep over each and every drawing before coming to rest on a serene winter landscape, one of the first he had drawn.
“That one.” I point.
“Then it is yours,” Eldon says simply.
He carefully lifts it from its spot on the wall and places it into my outstretched hands.
“Thank you!” I grin up at him and his eyes twinkle.
That evening, I hang the drawing in my room, right over my bed where I’ll see it every day. I can’t wait to show Eldon in the morning.
The sun finally bathes the earth in light and I am up out of bed, eager to show Eldon what I’ve done with his landscape. But Eldon doesn’t come. The next day arrives without him too.
After a week, I grow impatient.
“Daddy,” I ask, “Where’s Eldon?”
“I don’t know, Corrie.” He says. “I really don’t know.”
Months roll by and the realization dawns on me that Eldon isn’t coming back.
My family keeps his wall of artwork up for a few years, but in time, his drawings come down. The chores he had taken over are evenly distributed to members of the family, and almost as quickly as Eldon had come, he is gone, almost as if he’d never been there in the first place. But my winter landscape says otherwise.
“Auntie Cora?” Libby’s voice snaps me back to the present.
“Yes, child?” I whisper
“But… what ever happened to Eldon?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her, echoing my father. “I never saw him again. Sometimes I think about him, wonder where he is now. I imagine he became an artist somewhere and made thousands of winter landscapes for thousands of people.”
“I think he would like that.” Libby says, yawning. “But your landscape will always be the first.”
“Yes it will, Libby,” I murmur, “Yes it will.”
We sit there in silence for a long time rocking back and forth. I stare into the landscape and remember Eldon. When I glance down at Libby, I find her fast asleep in my arms.
Late in the night my door creaks open once again, revealing Libby’s parents, but Libby doesn’t stir.
“Thank you so much, Cornelia,” her father whispers, gathering Libby into his arms.
“I trust she wasn’t too much of a problem, was she?” Her mother asks.
“Not at all,” I smile. “She was an angel.”
Libby’s mother catches me gazing in thought at Eldon’s drawing.
“Oh what a lovely painting that is!” She breathes.
“Indeed. You should ask your daughter about it sometime.”
Mrs. Anderson gives me a rather queer look before following Mr. Anderson and a snoring Libby out of the room, closing the door behind them.
Socks’ face peeps around the corner from the dining room and upon finding a Libby-free environment, strides across the room and leaps into my lap once again. I resume my novel and the whole room goes back to the way it was, as though Libby had never been there in the first place. But Socks’ slightly ruffled fur and the faint outlines of snowy footprints on my carpet say otherwise.