That Was Never There

In the Pfaff family it has been a long-standing tradition to go on 'the tour' whenever my mother visits her sister Jeanne near Chicago. What tour, you say? A tour of the historic city of Chicago? Perhaps a tour of the Chicago Art Insitute or some of Frank Lloyd Wright's beautiful creations? Well, Frank Lloyd Wright is certainly involved, but I don't think he ever intended his masterpieces to be viewed in this particular fashion.

'The Tour', as it will always be referred to, is an experience unto itself. It always involves my mother and my Aunt Jeanne...laughing hysterically (And maybe just a bit sadistically). It also always involves one or more of the Pfaff grandchildren and miscellaneous hapless victims of their acquaintance. Really, it's anyone those two can fit in the van under the pretense of going to get ice cream.

While on the tour one of the aforementioned nutballs will drive at an embarrassingly slow speed around the Pfaff children's childhood haunts: their old house, the alleyway behind their old house, their friends old houses, supposedly haunted houses, their old schools, the fireball factory, the cemetery they had to walk through to get home from the movie theater, and yes, a Frank Lloyd Wright house which is never open for tours at the hour we visit, yet a tour is attempted all the same. This may sound tame, but please bear in mind that the hysterical laughter emitting from my Aunt and Mother only ceases to point out yet another attraction on the tour or to explain, yet again, how we might actually be Jewish. There is a definite sense of being trapped defenselessly in a moving vehicle (however slow it may be) Putting aside the horror stories and nostalgia, there has always been one predominant level of confusion for me while on the tour; the number one uttered phrase (aside from 'Can we just get ice cream now?') is: "And you see that? That was never there!" A phrase which, until recently for me, comically made little sense.

Luckily, my epiphany came in the form of cherry jello. As we all know, any good story stars with a sugar high, and that, my friends, is why you are now being unwittingly dragged into a tour of my childhood home. Just feel lucky I didn't canvas all of Mtn. Home.

Here is the cherry jello I grabbed out of the fridge and unrepentantly ate out of the storage container. It is no longer with us. May it rest in peace.

This is the cabinet over my parents island in the kitchen. That? That was always there. So was the painting of mushrooms and the old bottle of 'medicine for the heart' on top which I am told simply contained ketchup at the time it was marketed for such purposes.

This shelf has also always been there. Those are replicas of buildings from Oswego, where we lived before moving to Arkansas. That hanging apple ornament and the cinnamon heart decorations? Also always there.

This is my parents fridge. This particular one was never there...but the pictures, well, there were always pictures there. Lots and lots of pictures.

In fact, there were so many pictures on my parents fridge that there were also pictures on the insides of the cabinet doors. Those were always there.

My mother will probably kill me for posting this, but this is her dresser. That dresser and mirror and lamp were never there. But the pictures always were there and I love them. They're there because they're all the people she wants with her.

Now I'm moving on to some of my favorite pieces of art; note there are no pieces by Picasso or Van Gogh. This painting is by my Mother. It sums up a few of my favorite things: dirt roads, dense trees and water.

That mirror is just one of many beautiful pieces in our house made by my Uncle Jim. And the painting is by my Great Granny Gamelin.

I can't get enough of this one.

Or this one either. I used to stare at it for ages when I was a kid; it's a scene at a wedding. The newlyweds are saying their goodbyes just before they depart.

Anyway, gooey sentimentality aside, that is my childhood home to me; the things that were always there and now the increasing number of things that were never there. I think I've uttered that phrase more this past week than any other in my life. Mom and Jeanne would be proud.

I hope you enjoyed the tour. Trust me, it was much quicker and less painful than the ones I've been duped into. To my knowledge, no one was almost accosted while driving slowly through a remote cemetery or brought to tears by either laughter or pain. Consider that a victory, because I'm definitely not taking you out for ice cream and all the cherry jello is definitely gone.