Wikipedia Blogfest Flash

Arlington Baptist High School is located in Baltimore, Maryland.  Established in 1975 as an extension of the Arlington Baptist Church, the high school participated in many sports. It was a successful church and school, soon expanding to elementary and middle school classes. Later, it added a nursing home, a retirement complex, and a cemetery. 

This is an entry for The Great Wikipedia blogfest hosted by http://rachelbateman.com/
Link onto en.wikipedia.org, select "Random Article" on the left panel.  Read and synthesize the article, then create your own flash fiction.  This needs to be posted on June 3rd, 2011.

Baltimore was his home, his place of safety. Cable stood in the shadows in front of his old high school, Arlington Baptist High School. ‘Man, I was so young then, so strong,’ Cable thought, throwing his last cigarette on the street.

Memories of basket ball, the upbeat attitudes, the prayer before class—all flooded in on him in a wall of images. What had happened? Life happened, along with the drugs, the military, the secrets.

Cable picked up the cheap suitcase, groaning as the familiar pain lanced through him. ‘Damn cancer!’ he cursed. He limped across the street, and into the lobby of the Arlington Baptist Retirement and Care Center. A pretty woman his age looked up at him, expectantly.

Cable took her in, and saw the name, “Kathy Marks”.  ‘She was the cute cheerleader I was all hot about,’ Cable silently chuckled. “Can I help you, Mr….?”

“Yeah, I need to become a resident,” Cable slurred as he handed her documents and required statements. “And, I’ll be looking to buy a cemetery lot, real soon.”

Kathy looked up at him steadily, and then down at the papers. “Right this way, Mr. Cable. We’ve been expecting you.”

Home!

All through my adult life I have known there were options, if I ever needed to make a change and make it quickly.  I could close my eyes and see my parents’ home on the farm, and know that in a matter of hours, I could be there.  I could go home.

No matter what happened, the image of home hung in my mind, and I could face anything.  Just knowing that helped me find ways to work through a harsh situation or painful reality.

Built in 1860s, I think

Home meant that my mother would be making a pie in the kitchen and my father would be pulling into the driveway on his John Deere tractor.  We would sit at the kitchen table and talk, drinking cup after cup of coffee.  Dad would tell a greatly embellished story which I had heard a hundred times, but my children would listen to it and laugh.  He would sit with his long legs in front of him, and his feed cap tilted to one side, rakishly.  My mom would laugh, and hold one of my children on her lap, helping him/her to eat that last piece of pie.

Our old barn, wooden nails and all

Home meant that we would sleep upstairs with the windows wide open.  The silence would be broken only by a dog’s bark, or the sound of the hog feeders opening and closing.  I would listen to the sounds an old farm house makes.  I used to think that the old house would groan at night because its joints hurt; maybe they did.  My children would be safe in bed while I struggled with the dilemma that sent me running home in the first place.

North porch, Dad's boots

The old cistern and Mom's cactus

But now I find myself in a peculiar time of my life. The place I always called home is gone.  Gone.  When my father retired from farming, they left the farm and moved into a nice house in town, near wonderful neighbors.  The farmhouse was bulldozed away by new owners who built a modern home, and it won’t groan at all.  The house in town, which held together the concept of home, is now up for sale, along with all the precious things that defined home for me.  My parents are together in heaven, their new home.

So now my generation has the role as the keepers, the guardians of our own children’s concept of home.  My home is the place they will close their eyes and picture at the desperate times of their lives, and feel a rush of relief.  They can come home.

Now, I close my eyes and hear the sounds of my own home, enjoy the memories of my children running through the hall and eating my pie at my kitchen table.  My home.

Where were you?

There are certain days that one remembers always.  People remember anniversaries of great events, horrendous events, and glorious events.  Examples are endless:  the wedding day, the assassination of JFK, or just about anything where the images, sounds, and smells are forever ingrained in our computer-like brain.

In fact, someone can ask you, “What were you doing when you heard the news about the assassination of John F. Kennedy?”  Most of us who were cognizant at the time can call up that moment with clarity and emotion.  For me, I was sitting in my 7^th grade classroom, when the principal walked in and told us.  The room was cold and silent.  Then a boy turned in his chair, and it squeaked.  Another boy laughed.  We looked at each other, and then looked down quickly.  I didn’t know what to do with my hands, or where I should look.  Yes, a frozen photograph with sensory sound.

Robert Peck (in glasses)

I remember what I was doing on May 19, 1997.  It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and I had just gotten home from school.  There was a ‘to-do’ list running wildly in my head, and I was pulling dinner together.  The phone rang and I answered it, with the list still occupying my attention.

It was my parents.  I immediately sat down, and felt a chill creep over me from my head down to my toes.  I started to shiver.  “Yes?”  I answered. 

Easter 1959; Robert (glasses)

“Robert is gone,” my father’s voice sounded tired, stretched tight.

“This afternoon, two hours ago,” my mother filled in from another phone.  “It happened quickly.”  Mom’s voice was flat and without any light.

Robert & Cheryl, 1970

“I’ve got to go.  I need to make arrangements.”  I hung up.  I didn’t want to know how, for his death had been fast approaching, and the days passed while we held our collective breaths.  “Any day now,” was what my folks said every day when I called to ask “How’s Robert today?”

Uncle Robert with my Mary, 1985

Robert is my brother, and was born in January 1951; I was born in December 1951, and we were 10.5 months apart.  We were always close, and the attachment we felt stretched across countries, was always fresh and strong.  He discovered he had a brain tumor, an angioplastic astrocytoma, or a multiform glioma., in August 1995.  He had a dangerous surgery in early September 1995.  Robert lived nearly 21 months following his diagnosis.

Robert at Mom's kitchen table on the farm

So, today, I write this in Robert’s memory, for I know what I was doing when the phone call came.

Dad, Robert, brother Don, and my husband John

This is being posted on Memorial Day weekend, a time for families to remember departed loved ones, and to honor deceased veterans.  I needed to write this and breathe it out onto paper. I think of my brother Robert every single day, and I miss him dearly.