The first time we went to Seattle it was for a conference Dean was attending. It was in early August and the kids were still living with us. Clare was 15 and Andrew was 13. We must have gone to Pike Place Market as a family because at one point I noticed Andrew whispering to Dean. Later I noticed that Andrew had something hidden in his shirt.
Later in August, on my birthday, Andrew presented me with the tee shirt — one that I had remarked upon in our jaunts around the city. He also surprised me with a large, red Seattle’s Best coffee mug.
I write this today because I’m getting rid of the tee shirt. It is fraying at the neck and has two largeish holes in front (at just about nipple height). I know where to find another shirt like this because I bought Andrew a red sweatshirt with the same illustration a few years ago, but it would not be the same. I’ve worn this to bed for years, but the location of those holes on front are just plain immodest. Goodbye When it rains we pour tee shirt! You always made me smile!
I found two photos of an old car among photographs from our earlier days. I immediately assumed it was the car that belonged to our neighbor in Pittsburgh but Dean didn’t remember taking a photo of it. I just showed him the photos and he said that’s what it must be. This story is less about the car and more about the guilt I still carry about not doing something when I saw mail piling up on the neighbor’s front porch.
Dean and I lived in Pittsburgh from September 1982 through June 1985 while Dean earned a PhD in Statistics from Carnegie Mellon University. We lived on the 3rd floor of a 3-flat on College Street in the Shadyside area. The home next door was occupied by a woman who’d lived there for decades. We spoke to her occasionally and I even gave her our phone number to call if she needed anything. Dean probably spoke to her even more, because one day she told him that she still had her old car in the small garage in her backyard but since her husband died no one drove it. I don’t know if she showed it to him or if he peeked in through the windows, but he must have taken photos of it because I found them among our photographs from our Pittsburgh days.
Dean thought it was a Model T, but I see now that it was a Chevrolet, so probably a 490 touring series, according to The National Museum of Transportation.
Our houses were very close to each other, and about the same height. Our living room window looked into a window of her house that might have been a bedroom at one time, or perhaps it was an attic. I don’t know if the woman ever went up to that room because the view we had never changed. It was always of a box of cat food. Purina, if I recall correctly.
One day when I returned from work I noticed that mail was sticking out of the mailbox. For the next few days that mail piled up. I knew I should probably call the police or something, but I thought that should be up to the mail carrier. I don’t know how long this went on, but one day emergency vehicles were in front of her house, police, fire trucks, ambulance. I didn’t stick around to see what happened, but went to my apartment and tried to not think about it. Not long afterward the house was sold and remodeled. It is now a duplex.
I should have called the police as soon as I noticed the mail piling up. It’s as simple as that.
On another note, I have gone down a rabbit hole looking at street views of our old apartment building. That’ll have to wait for another post.
In 1970 I watched an episode of Night Gallery called Certain Shadows on the Wall and it scared the bejesus out of me. I don’t really remember the storyline at all (IMBD helped: “Sickly Emma Brigham dies, but her shadow is still visible on one wall of the family mansion”) but I remembered the shadow. It is one reason I am afraid of the dark.
I did remember that Agnes Moorehead was the shadow, and I remembered the shadow too. I’d forgotten the photograph of me at thirteen that always made me think of this ghost story. I recently came across the photograph and had to look up the episode.
Looking at the picture of me, besides seeing the ghost shadow recreated, I remember that chair. It was my grandpa Patrick’s chair and Grandma gave it to my dad when she moved from the farm. I remember the smell of the leather (or vinyl) — it was the smell of my dad’s head.
I don’t remember the curtains my mom had on the windows in the living room though. That must have been temporary. I’ll have to do a blog post about those windows someday.
Clutch Cargo Lips 