The Attic

My bedroom, for the bulk of my teenage years, was in the attic. It was a long, narrow room -- I couldn't stand upright in parts of the room. At age 11 (1980ish), when I moved into the attic, I picked the color scheme of pink and green. Why, you might ask?

Here's why:

For some reason, I was not looking forward in time to the period when pink and green would cause vomiting, regardless of whether or not booze was involved.

A couple of other things about that attic bedroom.

I used to fall asleep at the top of the steps, looking out the window at the full moon. Maybe, in another life, I used to be a werewolf, but something about that window afforded me a great view as well as some peaceful slumbers.

I can remember spending HOURS making paper dolls with my sister in that room -- I was a bit better at cutting and coloring than I was at making Barbie clothes. The attic was also the starting point for the long treks my sister and I would make as we played "Little House on the Prairie," dressing up as the Ingalls sisters making their way across the Plains. It was HOT up there in the summer, so it was a perfect replica of what we imagined the life of Laura and Mary to be.

One day in April, 1981, I sat in that room all afternoon with my friend Kim Vining while we played Monopoly and trying to laugh. We were there because the grownups were at the cemetery burying my brother Adam. I think she saved my life that day.

Later, when I was a teenager, the attic bedroom served as a mini-recording studio, while I listened on the radio for my favorite Springsteen songs and prepared my tape recorder to catch every note. I spent time lying on my bed learning the lyrics to every song on the "Born to Run" and "Darkness on the Edge of Town." I wrote REALLY BAD poetry. I cried a lot.

An important piece of information about my attic bedroom is that I had to pass through my parents' bedroom to get to it. For those of you who know me, you know that I am blind as a bat. Imagine a gangly, half-blind teenager barrelling down a steep set of stairs to get to the bathroom at 2:30AM. Bang. Bang. Bump. Ooops.

Sorry, Mom and Dad.

As I was much older, maybe when I came home from college, the location began to be a problem. One night, after a particular raucous evening with friends, I got myself upstairs but felt pretty awful and close to vomiting. The logical option: throw up outside of the window, no doubt sending spew down the side of the house. I can only suspect that it was raining outside, because my parents never said anything...

Again, sorry.

I later moved down to the back room, the room that had been "the baby's" room, where I stayed through grad school. It was better situated for returning home after late night activities (like rehearsals...) as well as studying. I could at least stand up...

The basement

As I was walking through the house this afternoon, I spent some time in the basement, which is all packed up and ready for the movers.

The basement has been transformed on more than one occasion. When we were kids, the basement had, in the middle of it, a giant octopus-style heating system. This is what it looked like:

Not sure who that dude is, but he was not in our basement.

So, this thing was smack in the middle of the basement, our playroom when it was too cold out or bad weather or we were bored or my mom wanted us out of her hair. The floor, at the time, was cement. I know, great room to play in, right? What made the basement awesome to play in, with both the cement and the octopus, was that it was perfect for a roller rink.

Remember the roller rink? We made our own. We actually roller skated AROUND the octopus, on the cement, in the basement. Usually with music. Okay, almost always with music. And the music was:



And then there was:



I will happily admit that I LOVED Shaun Cassidy and Donny and Marie. LOVED THEM.

So we roller skated.

Later, the basement was the site for a Volansky-cousin Beatles singalong, the ill-conceived "gym club" (picture six eleven year olds doing push ups, sit ups and then giggling -- I blame Jane Fonda), and countless hours of Barbie playing. We had the townhouse style dream house (maybe that's why I love my row house so much...), the airplane, some sort of pool and a lot of clothes. My sister was a much better Barbie caretaker than I ever was. My Barbie's clothes were frequently stapled together. Sue's were lovingly crafted and matched. We both had the misguided thought that we could pierce Barbie's ears with straight pins. Her ears, sadly, always turned green. Poor Barbie. She did have friends: Ken, of course, and Skipper. Early on, there was Midge, but I'm not quite sure what happened to her. Her 1950s/1960s clothes seemed out of touch with the swinging stylings (albeit stapled) of Barbie.

The basement also housed my father's work area. My dad is not exactly a handyman, but he certainly spent a fair amount of time down there in recent years, making model cars, airplanes and boats. There was a decoy duck period. He did, after TOO much time down there, develop nosebleeds that I am fairly certain were a result of an excess of airplane glue. We called his putterings "art therapy." I think he has been happy down there.

Sometime after I stopped believing in Santa Claus (or maybe I was on the cusp of not believing in Santa Claus...), the basement was the place where one year I snooped around for Christmas presents. I have a vague memory of finding them, hidden in the back, at another end of the octopus. After I opened the bag, I felt guilty and quickly closed it and never looked again.

My mom has a habit of keeping a LOT of things around the house, "just in case." An example of this is the 5-7 bottles of ketchup that were stored in the upstairs pantry. After the octopus was replaced by a more conventional heating system and some carpet was put down (so much for roller skating after THAT), a storage freezer appeared. In the freezer was kept frozen sides of beef, countless breasts of chicken, orange juice (2 for $3!), homemade pasta sauce and who knows what else. When my parents replaced their refrigerator, buying one that had the freezer on the bottom for greater ease, the old fridge went to the basement, housing a LOT of beer, mixers, and food overflow for Thanksgiving, Easter and other holidays. There was also another cabinet, stocked to the edges with what I think was Lawry's marinade, in a bunch of different flavors. There was extra sugar, coffee, salad dressing, aluminum foil, Saran wrap, rice, pasta, seasonings.

My sister and I would frequently go "shopping" down there. Somehow, I missed out on the packing of that cabinet because, now that I am looking at my own pantry, I seem to be out of Lawry's...

First memory

The first memory I have, ever, is the day my sister was born.

If you look at the picture, you will notice that the house has brick front steps. Back in the day, those steps were cement, and there was a railing on the right side. Also, there were bushes that had these weird red gooey things that were, so we were told, poisonous. DO NOT EAT.

At any rate, I was just a little over three when Sue came along. The story we are told is that she came FAST -- my dad was speeding toward Cooper Hospital and, upon being pulled over by a startled cop early in the morning, was given an escort to the hospital where she arrived shortly thereafter. It was Father's Day. The joke was that Bob wanted a tie -- he got Sue.

My memory is this: my mom was trying to get out of the house to the car (maybe it was green) and I was holding the hand of my grandfather heading down the stairs.

A detour: I learned how to walk with a towel over my head. Maybe I knew that, later in life, I would be a profound klutz and it was better not to see anything. Whatever it was, my early steps were made with a kitchen towel pulled over my head.

Walking is not my strong suit.

Those steps were a bit frightening, even with the railing and trying to rush, as we were, made the walk that much more uncertain. And I was excited.

Whatever it was, when I close my eyes and think about that day, I am holding my grandfather's hand for dear life, chugging down the stairs. My little red shoe slipped off, into those poisonous bushes. "We'll get it later," I remember him saying.

I don't ever remember wearing red shoes again. I wonder if, when my parents cleared out the shrubs and replaced them with the beautiful flowers and natural grasses, they found my missing red shoe?

After 42 years, saying farewell to 911 Belmont

My parents moved into 911 Belmont Avenue, on the border between Collingswood and Haddon Township, New Jersey in 1969. I was one.

On Monday, they will be moving to their new home in Montoursville, PA, where my sister lives with her family.

This weekend, my brother and I will be spending time at the house. I'm hoping to take a walk around the old neighborhood, visit my elementary and high school and generally revel in all the amazing things that happened here over the past 42 years.

I hope you enjoy my walk down memory lane.

gotothellifyouhatefreedom,
Volansky