tennis, the pool, and a maze of streets for bicycles
and long walks; surrounded by rows of prefabricated
homes each with one little palm tree by the driveway.
People drove golf carts around in the park, or large
tricycles, or older couples would walk together just as
it was beginning to turn to dusk and long shadows from
tree-tops cris-crossed over the streets. In the afternoons,
the women in the pool would wear hats and sunglasses,
lean against the sides, swing legs in the warm water.
I remember the summer afternoons when it rained in
Florida, and after the rain I would go out in the puddles
in my roller skates, skate through them, feet soaking wet.
There was even a street named after me in the park,
and at the end of Jan Drive there was a pond.
I spent hours there, playing imaginary games,
pretending I was grown-up, feeding the ducks,
watching the fish swim around the rocks at my
feet, looking for the turtles, listening to the wind.
Oh, I remember Mr. Whorall, how he would walk
onto his driveway every time I was playing tennis
across the street. He would watch me, tell me how
I was getting better at the game every time he saw me.
And there was also Mrs. Rogers, who lived up the
street from me. She saw me riding my bicycle by one day
just before Halloween. She invited me in to help
carve a pumpkin. Every year she bought me a Christmas
present. The sweetest woman. The most beautiful woman.
And there was Ira and Betty Wiggins, who lived on
the next street, Sand Drive, with a sign in front of
their house that said, “The Wiggins’ Wigwam.”
They had a hammock on their porch, and art so
beautiful, so colorful on their walls. They lived in
Panama for years, he used to be a doctor. So
many things collected from all their travel. They both
knew so much, they both loved life. Once they saw
me and asked if I wanted to catch a lion. They then
went to the side of the road, and with a spoon pulled
an ant lion from the top of a sand hill. So many secrets.
Every night Ira could be found with cue holder,
decorated with Panamanian art, at the pool table, playing
my father, or another man who died years ago. I remember
that man telling me that when I was younger he would
watch me on Easter Sunday, me in my pastel dress, by
myself, spinning, dancing in the streets. He remembered
me dancing. This is his memory, how he thought of me.
And I remember the McKinleys, Pete and Lindy, another
beautiful pair who talked of Mexico, of all the places
they’d gone, all the things they had seen. So many times I
would visit them just to hear them talk. And Pete would try
to stump me with an intellectual riddle every time I sat with
him; he would ask me about astronomy, what I had learned in my
classes since the last time I visited the park. Sometimes they
would take me to their country club, play on tennis courts made
of clay, how strange it felt on my feet through my tennis shoes.
It was like another world there. The park was
where I spent my Christmases, my Easters. I
remember swimming in the pool, a week shy of
thirteen, when my parents told me I was an aunt.
Now I talk to my sister on the phone, she asks me
if I remember so-and-so from Palos Avenue,
from Blue Skys Drive. The couple that had the ornate
rock garden in their front yard, or the snow shovel
against their light post with the words “rust in
peace” painted in white on the metal. Yes, I say, I
remember them. Well, so-and-so passed away last week,
she says. Heart attack. This is what it comes down
to, I think, all these memories are slowly disappearing.
So many memories. Where there are palm trees everywhere.
It was my other world, my other life, another
lifestyle, another everything. This was not an ordinary
park, but the children were so much smarter, and
still so full of life. So much to teach. So little time.
Scars Publications and Design
in conjunction with Penny Dreadful Press
first edition
copyright @ 2004 Scars Publications and Design
827 Brian Court, Gurnee IL 60031-3155 USA
Editor@scars.tv
http://scars.tv
and assistance from Freedom & Strength Foundation, Troy Press, Hawthorne Press & Dried Roses Press
printed in the United States of America
writings @ 1979-2004 Janet Kuypers
book design @ 1998-2004 Scars Publications and DesignThis book, as a whole, is fiction, and no correlation should be made between events in the book and events in real life. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.Information about past books is available upon request through Scars Publications and Design. Materials from the literary magazines “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “Down in the Dirt” are available on line at http://scars.tv, as are .mp3 files, .ra files, .aif files, .au files, .wav files .mov and mpeg files of Kuypers, both reading her work and singing with three sets of musicians.Oeuvre is published through Scars Publications and Design, whose publisher is a member/minister through the Universal Life Church. Scars Publications and Design, the logo and associated graphics @ 1979 - 2004. All rights reserved. Kuypers and Scars Publications and Design welcome your comments, tips, compliments or complaints. Direct all comments and suggestions to the e-mail addresses listed above.The definition of oeuvre (the works of a writer, painter, or the like, taken as a whole) is from the Websters Unabridged 2001 Dictionary.