Scheherazade Project-Starlight

This is my second contribution to the Scheherazade Project. Any comments/critique is definitely welcome. This is (very) loosely based on a recent trip my mother, sister and I took to Longview, TX.

I could tell it had been pretty once, even peaceful. Surrounded on three sides by stately East Texas pines, the house faced what could generously be called a lake, but more closely resembled a swamp. Great weeping willows crept along the brush entangling itself with masses of fragrant honeysuckle. The house had long ago been taken over by flora. Rodents and bats and other squatters had made themselves at home in every nook and cranny.

“There’s snakes too, I expect,” said Uncle Chris, “so be careful. You probably should have worn sneakers instead of those sandals.”

I smiled and shrugged. He was right. I probably should have worn sneakers but I didn’t expect a field trip to the dilapidated old house that had once been our family homestead.

“Can we go in?” asked my sister, Claire.

“Let’s you and I go check it out,” replied Uncle Chris. He grinned at me and said apologetically, “You’d better not. I know there’s poison ivy. Why don’t you stay out here with your mother?”

I was fine with that. I didn’t get to see Mom all that often anyway. My sister, Claire, and I had taken our mother to Longview to visit her brother, our Uncle Chris. The visit had turned into a prolonged genealogy lesson with Mom and Uncle Chris taking turns regaling us with stories of their childhood. Uncle Chris had taken it a step further by squiring us all over East Texas to show us where our family had lived, worked, and loved. This house, named Starlight, had been the home of Rebecca Hope, our great-great grandmother.

“I like the way they used to name houses,” I said to Mom.

She smiled wistfully and then laughed. “You can still name your house nowadays. Your stepfather and I named our house Hardwood.”

I laughed. I thought that was a mighty grand name for a weathered and bordering on run-down 3-bedroom house in an almost bad part of town. “Mike is eccentric,” I said. “He names everything.”

“Well, yes. We’re an eccentric family,” mom said proudly. “That includes you, my dear.”

I grinned. “Well, yes. I guess it does. I suppose I prefer eccentric to weird, strange, off, or ‘a little odd’.”

We walked in companionable silence for a while on the trail that was barely visible beneath all the brambles.

“Did you come here a lot when you were a kid?” I asked mom.

“No,” she replied. “This house belonged to another family by then. I don’t really know the story. I expect your Uncle Chris knows more about it.” Mom shifted directions so that we were walking to the dock overlooking the swamp.

“Scenic view,” I said, only half-joking. Mom didn’t catch the implied sarcasm.

“It is,” she said. “I’ve always loved East Texas. It’s home to me. This is home. It’s been a while since I’ve seen anything this lovely.”

I snuck a sideways glance at Mom as she gazed over the swamp. Mom was a chubby, gray-haired grandmotherly sort with appalling fashion sense and a blatant disregard for convention. But just then, I could see the young girl depicted in a few surviving childhood photographs—small, but sturdy, two long, dark plaits tumbling past her shoulders, clutching loose pages she’d cobbled together tightly in her arms as she daydreamed of becoming a famous author and finding love, fame, and fortune.

Many of her dreams had come true, but none of them in the expected ways. Fortune had eluded her, but she was well-known in her field. And it had taken her two tries, but she’d found love with someone remarkably compatible—that is to say, Mike was just as disrespectful of social mores as Mom. It occurred to me then that Mom had never really stopped daydreaming.

“Hey, you two—there you are!” exclaimed Uncle Chris. Claire followed him, her eyes shining.

“So,” I began, “what was it like? Is it pretty?”

Claire’s eyes sparkled. “It was. It is. I’ll tell you about it,” she said, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.

Mom and I exchanged a smile and followed the others to Uncle Chris's SUV.

“You’re right, mom,” I whispered. “It is lovely.”