Part 1-So We Moved to Unfamiliar Cities and Walked Without Maps

part one

A week before my sister was born we moved into the house in New Elliot. An unincorporated plot of the county still not yet annexed by the larger municipalities. Even though I was the only kid on the street with New Elliot pride I still felt like we were all in it together, the neighbors and me. An island, a militia seceded from the union; Shawn and Andrew, Luke and Jacob, Chris and Tom, Anthony and John- we trained and stockpiled for the inevitable day our walls would need defending. Of course I was the only one that knew, or cared, about this. The only evidence that I know of that the square mile that makes up New Elliot is in fact called such is the First Church of New Elliot. Which technically is the second Church of New Elliot since the first building fell victim to years and years of persistent gravity and an attendance that left the collection plate a bit light. I know my family never attended that, or any, church. I was only there to play afternoon tag on the high concrete steps. Then later lifting boards from the construction of the new New Elliot church to build deer stands high in the trees. Even though I never hunted I enjoyed building things like deer stands and go-carts with tractor tires and rope steering mechanisms. The only other irrefutable proof of our existence is the cover of the phone book, listing the towns contained within.

Our house sat overlooking a series of connected ponds that once thawed of Indiana winter remained pristine and picturesque for exactly 15 days before the green moss overcame it and the mosquito factory became fully operational. A few summers someone had the idea and commissioned planes to swoop down dropping chemicals on the ponds to kill the brewing stew of larvae. Their attempts did not work. I wonder, between the barnstormers clouds descending on us and my cousin and I running behind the fogger truck through Griffith alleys, if any of my long standing personality flaws could be attributed. Granted, the game Brent and I had was to hold our breath in the white greasy cloud, not to inhale the potential poison, but still…

I have heard various stories why the ponds exist. They seemed to me to serve a few possible purposes. It is not hard to be convinced the holes are manmade since each body of water is a perfectly stretched oval. The largest, and deepest of which, is a long oval connected to a larger circle, like a puffy P. I suppose irrigation could have initially wet the long parceled farms. Up until 1994 they served as our collective neighborhood septic pools, each of the few dozen homes emptying our number ones and number twos into them. I heard the original owner, Mr. P, who is still alive and roughly 115 years old still driving the same tan Chevy with the white ladder rack, dug out the ponds to create a preserve so no one could ever build there, leaving our backyards at the same time pretty and quiet as smelly and dangerous. My favorite reason and the most likely is that the dirt was removed to build up the road bed for the construction of the first transcontinental highway; Lincoln Highway- Route 30. Now known as Old Lincoln Highway, which cuts New Elliot in half; water filled cavities that contributed to the creation of our state motto, The Crossroads of America, a great place to live if you want to leave- clearly marked exits at the end of each hall.

So our house was essentially two rooms, three if you count the bathroom-5 if you split the two rooms into kitchen and living room divided by couches and two bedrooms divided by an impenetrable, invisible yet understood line down the middle creating a force field between my sister and me. All this sat atop a sinking and drifting basement. I once heard my dad say the tree next to the house moved the entire structure five feet north over twenty years. It also had to be jacked up a few inches every so often. The basement, aside from containing tools, stray kittens, my dad’s porn collection and a lifetime’s supply of dank, housed our furnace. Which also moved five feet north over twenty years. This time under its own volition. I am glad that I no longer have to choose between being shaken from my bed and freezing.

Bed, for the first fourteen years of my life, was primarily a foam pad that folded up into a chair. Something cheap meant for casual use; the chair-bed quickly left my midsection resting on the floor. The center dip also allowed a channel for the mice to run under me. They too chose shaking over freezing. When the mice got bored of running under me they began running over me. This is when the bathtub suddenly found itself on a list of places children sleep. At some point I graduated to the full length black vinyl couch complete with electrical tape repairs. I loved it. It also left me with a skill I believe remains underrated by anyone that I have ever shared a bed with- I can roll over in place. So in any size bed I will only take up as much room as wide as my shoulders. I can also, if needed, sleep coffin style. Legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded on my chest; as long as I have a pillow of some kind I can rest on any surface. Being made content with a rolled up jacket and a hardwood floor is a trait well suited to those who pass out wherever they find themselves welcome.

I feel shamed complaining, though. Truly. My parents had a much less fun time of it. If they ever complained about it, I never heard it. I heard rare arguments and condescension, to be sure, but never about that. Imagine yourself 21 years old and it’s 1981. Add two children. You just bought a house. Subtract a good job at the mill. Got it? Ok, now imagine sleeping on separate couches inches away from your spouse, just ten feet from your children, in a sinking and floating and shaking house for the next 15 years.

Seriously.

That sucks.

I am a pretty patient guy. To a fault, even. I honestly do not think I would be able to swing that.

They did.