This Joy’s Life

Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle;
Everything I do is stiched with its color. – Edna St. Vincent Millay

***

What makes a house a home? When there is nothing about it, in it, around it that doesn’t generate some kind of memory for you. When it is the backdrop to so many experiences, good and bad, with both friends and family, how can it not be defined as a home “where the heart is”?

In the “olden days” they used to refer to them as “the homeplace” where children were born and raised in only a few rooms. But that didn’t make it small, no sir. If anything, it was that much more full. The homeplaces of my grandmothers and the ones they created with their husbands to raise their children still exist, and now have taken on a magical, mystical dimension for me. I guess I’m an old soul to be so enamoured with those small, simple little wooden houses. Not much to look at by most people’s standards.

Only recently, now that Clara has come along, have I started thinking more about the “homeplace” concept and what makes a house a home. The house I grew up in – 124 Ridgeway Road – in Marietta, Georgia was most definitely a home, not just a house, but at the time I lived there it never occurred to me that it was MY homeplace. I always thought that the memories I had would travel with me where I went and the backdrop, the house, was not really so important. It was just a 70′s brick ranch, after all, in the middle of 7.5 acres on a hill with a super long curvy driveway that my brother and I MASTERED on bikes, skateboards, go-carts and the like. The house couldn’t be seen from the road, so, to others, I’m sure it was a bit intriguing to look up and wonder about it from down there. I never felt it lived to up to it’s intrigue, but that’s probably because it was ours and we knew it and the grounds inside and out, so where’s the mystery?

My mother, I seem to remember, made it clear that the purchase of the house was a decision my father had made, an “investment” for the future (and how). But, it was not the house my mother would have chosen had she had her druthers. The backdoor through the kitchen was the un-official entryway because the actual front door had no pathway of any kind leading up to it. It meant my mother always had to keep the kitchen tidy because, as is tradition in the South, you never know when someone might show up on your doorstep. There was no laundry room, just a washer and dryer in a traditional basement filled to the brim with, to the naked eye, junk (a glorious place to explore as a child). She hated the lack of a laundry room and the many stairs between the laundry hampers and the washing machine. This, I feel, influenced the way I thought of the house. Also, as I got older, I got interested in decorating and magazines like Country Living. Our house was nothing like those houses and, in my mind, had none of the architectural charm that even the small cottage-like homeplaces of my grandmothers had. So, I always assumed that my connection with 124 Ridgeway Road was only as a backdrop to the life that I was living and not much more.

After my brother and I were “grown” and long since gone from the house, my parents put it on the market, ready to cash in on the investment they had made. It was on the market for at least seven years (give or take). I think because it was up for so long, I never really believed it was “for sale”. I remember that when I would come home to visit from Seattle, as soon as we started up that long, curvy driveway (which somehow seemed to get shorter as I got older), I could begin to smell my home. Standing in the driveway, pulling out my luggage, I would take a few deep breaths and suck in the smell in the air, unique to my home. It’s the best way I can describe it. It was as though the air around the house had its own distinct flavor. Were that I could have bottled it! It would sell faster than Kramer’s “Ocean” is my sincere belief.

I’m realizing lately that I have many other memories of the house and grounds in which they play a starring roll, not just the set the scene. One of my favorite games as a child was to go out into the woods (the entirety of the 7.5 acres) and play “Timber” with my brother and friends. We would find the vine-y limbs of trees that had broken off but not made it out of the tangle of branches and pull and pull until they would fall on top of us. We would yell “Timber” and I usually would pretend that they had hurt me and fall to the ground. Brett or whoever would then have to come and “rescue” me! Then there were the races my brother and I had from the very top of the driveway to the bottom. It took us YEARS to build up the courage to do the whole thing WITH RECKLESS ABANDON – no brakes allowed! My grandmother tells a story of the time we were both very little on our big wheels or tricycles, just going down a portion of the driveway. We kept promising her, “One more time, Granny, one more time.” At the exact same time, we both took nose dives. So, there is my poor grandmother with two screaming toddlers and “lots” of blood trying to figure out if and how badly we were really hurt. She loves to tell that story and laugh at us for not listening to her and stopping before we bit it.

Two cats, Mister and Missy, and a dog, Heidi, are buried there. My brother and I had a shared ghostly experience there. (We were sitting in the den very early one Saturday morning before my parents were awake. We heard heavy footsteps on the roof and then a man fall off screaming “ahhhhhh” as he fell. We looked at each other scared to death, then found the nerve to run outside to see. No one was there! Mom and dad didn’t believe us, of course, but we never could explain how we both heard it if it didn’t happen. Da da dom!)

Even my “porn” name is based off that home. You know, the grade school game where you take as your first name the of your first pet – Heidi – and the last name of the road you live on – Ridgeway. Heidi Ridgeway. That’s a pretty good porn star name if I do say so myself. (Don’t worry, I’ve given up my “porn star” ways. Now my name – Joy Fisher – sounds like a movie star, or so says one of the Custom Fence Company vendors that I speak with every month. She tells me that every time I call in. I can’t complain. Now, if we can just work on the movie star lifestyle . . .)

The house at 124 Ridgeway Road did finally sell to a developer who planned to put up 47 town homes on it and my parents moved a couple hours further south to Fortson, Georgia. That’s been about, wow, two years ago already, I guess. Although the last few times I’ve been home to see family I’ve been at their new home in Fortson, I never really acknowledged the fact that my homeplace was gone. The developer still hadn’t begun building so the house was just standing there, still full of a number of things my parents left behind after years of accumulating stuff. I knew the house was going to be destroyed, ripped down when the bulldozers came in and I kind of liked the idea that no other family would live there and start building up a relationship with “my homeplace” and “my woods”. But when I heard a couple months ago that the house burned to the ground, I was suddenly very sad about it. We have no information on what happened there exactly and why it burned, but it felt like a tragic death in the family and somehow very unjust. That just wasn’t how my home was supposed to go. It wasn’t supposed to end like that.

This post is dedicated to my homeplace, the house where I grew up that became a true home and the most beautiful backdrop to the story of so much of my life.

****

Update: I’ve been to see the house since it burnt down and have pictures in this blog post here.

My father is not dead. But, I wrote his eulogy anyway.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly NOT ready and waiting for my father to die. In fact, I’ve recently flown across the country with my not quite two year old daughter to be with him as he fights his way back in the Critical Care Unit of St. Francis hospital. Finally, things seem to have begun taking a turn for the better. Of course he’s not out of the woods yet. But being here and close has eased my mind so much. Before that, from 3,000 miles away, I couldn’t get over the feeling of dread that the moment whose arrival I have dreaded for years might finally be upon me and that along with it regret – for not being near him when it happened, amongst other things – would follow quickly behind.

That’s when a tangent thought lead me to the conclusion that I needed to write his eulogy so that if he survived this I could read it to him. It seemed especially tragic to me that I might sit down to write it after he had passed and that he may never have heard what I would have to say about him. It is sad to me to think that the person being eulogized would never get the opportunity to hear that praise while he is alive and might appreciate or benefit from it the most. The ones left behind may find some comfort in a eulogy, but I’m not sure how much good it does the dead guy, if you know what I mean.

So, I sat down and wrote a eulogy for my father, not knowing if I may actually have to read it aloud to a group of mourners in the near future. I’m not even sure I could read it aloud to anyone at all if the worst should happen. Thankfully, that remains to be seen. For now, here it is – my written praise to my father – who at this moment is not dead and will turn 71 in less than a week.

***

Cecil Rudolph Kersey.

Some of you know him as Cecil, many of you know him as Rudi. I know him as Dad. I’m often told by my mother that we are exactly alike. While I don’t know that that is entirely true, I do know that many of his faults are mine, but I’d like to think maybe a little of his greatness is too.

Here is a simple list of some of the great things about my father you may already know:

He is loyal.

“Joy Lynn is out to Win!” This is a slogan he FORCED me to adopt when I was in the 6th grade and thought I might, maybe, consider running for class treasurer. He had every confidence that I could and would win despite my attempt to explain to him exactly where I fit in the social hierarchy at school – the word plebe comes to mind. Yes, for every reason I gave as to why I could not win, he responded with the reason why I absolutely would win. I didn’t, but that’s not the point. He was completely loyal to the underdog that was his daughter.

He recognized my “frienemies” before I did. The first one I can remember is Emily Rudd. He didn’t like her one bit. He was on my side before I was and I, of course, was on her side because what could he know? I came to find out he was right, by the way.

If Brett or I are ever rude to our mother, you bet dad is there to defend her (even though she is perfectly capable of doing it herself). He is loyal to her most of all, I think. He would do anything for that woman (including paint Roses for Hilda – an impressionistc piece I now have haning in my living room).

He loves to “pull your leg.”

Especially if he thinks he can get away with it and you are a gullible child. “Curiosity killed the cat, Joy and Brett.” That’s what he told us as we were getting out of the car to explore the local haunted house (at least it was in our minds). “Oh no! Whose cat,” we asked? “Who is Curiosity? I don’t care, I’m still going!” “Just remember, curiosity killed the cat, ” was all he would say. We never did explore that house before they tore it down.

And did you know that he was really the Incredible Hulk? Yep, he would stand here now and tell you that he had us completely convinced of this fact. (Not so. I was pretty sure it wasn’t true, but you know, I didn’t want to ruin it for Brett.)

He is into repetition. I’ll say it again – he is into repetition.

On my 16th birthday, he set the CD player on repeat to play “Sixteen Candles” ALL DAY LONG. Every time I hear that song, for the rest of my life, I will think of my father. My daughter will endure the same burden on her 16th birthday in honor of him. And it is primarily because of his love of repetition that Clara at not even two years old knows exactly who Papa is from 3,000 miles away. He’s “1, 2, 3, 4, 5!, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5!” repeated in a sing-song voice just like a once favorite, now long forgotten toy.

From these stories, it should come as no surprise that he loves children and dogs.

Cats? Not so much. I can’t tell you how many times he suggested the best place for our family cats was in the microwave. While it was on. He was half-joking, of course. In fact, he had just recently sent me a very detailed email about how to use my cat as a toilet brush. He assured me that both Harry and the toilet would come out “sparkling clean.”

He is a poet and a painter. (Seems this may be a requirement of carrying the Kersey name.)

Don’t be mislead,

Always plan for what’s ahead,

Danger waits for those who occupy an unmade bed.

There may be some wisdom in there from my father. It’s an acrostic poem he wrote, where the first letter in each line combines to spell a word. In this case, D-A-D – Dad.

He maintains and ongoing battle over the birdseed with any given number of squirrels each day.

But don’t think he didn’t respect this sworn enemy:

Bark held tight in close embrace,
Round and round in joyous chase,
But serious times soon come again,
Come so soon on Winter’s Wind.

Hidden in summer and in fall,
Nuts and seed, large and small,
Destined to be found again,
When Winter’s cold has crept within.

Buried secrets keep them fed,
While nature herself provides a bed,
In urban areas sometimes a friend,
Provides more food in constructed bins.

Intended perhaps for a feathered friend,
The squirrel seems somehow to always win:
Improving his larder by persistent attempts,
No obstacles to his efforts proving exempt.

He can’t hear worth diddly-squat.

And will never admit it. Whenever I call home to see how my parents are doing, mom asks the standard mom questions:

“How’s Clara?” Doing good.

“How’s Chad?” Doing good.

“Anything else I need to know about?” Not really.

“Do you want to talk to your dad?” Sure. Hi dad.

“How’s Clara?” Doing good. “What?” DOING GOOD!

“How’s Chad?” Doing good. “What?” DOING GOOD!

Now, if Chad happens to be in the room while I’m on the phone with them, all he hears is:

Doing good. Doing good. Doing good. DOING GOOD! Doing good. DOING GOOD!!

—

If you didn’t know all these things about my father – that he was loyal, liked to pull your leg, loved to repeat himself, could paint and write poetry – there is one other thing you may not know about him:

He can sometimes be stubborn.

If you know any Kerseys, then you know this is DEFINITLY a requirement of carrying the “Kersey” name. It’s funny that this, this flaw, becomes one of the most endearing things about him. A thing to look back on, to shake your head and laugh – just a little – at “how frustrating that man can be!”

I say to you now the same words that he wrote after his own father’s passing:

He is my father and I love him.