For years I thought you had to “find” your home. I began with a summer red wagon. Knees not even wagon high, I filled the rusted container with baby dolls and stuffed animals, along with an unopenable can of chicken noodle soup, a glass jar of water, my hardcover copy of Little House in the Big Woods, a blanket (said to be for their comfort, but mostly for mine), Bazooka Joe bubble gum, and the plastic camera that no longer worked that I ordered with those same gum wrappers. I didn’t have a watch, so I can’t tell you how long I was gone. But I’m certain the sun didn’t change positions. I was not allowed beyond the “north end,” and it was too difficult to drag my wagon alongside Hugo’s field, so most likely it took me longer to pack than journey. I returned to the green grass in front of our green house, took everything out of the wagon and placed it neatly back in my bedroom. Grabbed my Big Chief Notebook from under my pillow, palmed my number 2 pencil and wrote of the voyage I imagined I just took. And I was home.
Maybe I’m more of a maker than a seeker. The answers aren’t waiting to be found, but created. I’ve said for years that you have to fall in love with your bathroom. Learn how your oven works. Curate, not decorate. Become and become and become. To be the life in your living room. In every room. I suppose the same is for love.
It’s true I love to travel, but in search of an experience, not the answers. The things I know for sure are nestled in the heart, the little red wagon that I keep filled with all that I love.
It was no small feat to gather the animals and dolls each summer morning to go for my walk in Hugo’s field. I had just enough to fill my brother’s hand-me-down red wagon. But I didn’t place them directly inside, the bottom was too rusty. In my brother’s defense, he didn’t care for “babies,” but hauled tools to build his own scooter in the shed. He was not concerned with the orange residue that could easily ruin a baby’s dress or an animal’s fur coat. To protect their delicate nature, I placed my best blankets from Ben Franklin underneath them. And to protect the blankets, underneath I put sheets from last week’s Alexandria Echo Press.
When everything and everyone was situated, out of rust’s way, off we would go into Hugo’s field. I imagined they were afraid, (only imagining because I felt it myself), so I would sing to them, sing to me. And the music always cleared the path. Even in the overgrown wheat, we walked on, lifted by each note, careful only to clear the way, and not damage the growth (Hugo reminded me of this, and rarely in song.)
Yesterday, for the first time, I heard a choir singing my words. A poem I had written was made into a song. As they sang, I felt the tears of tenderness drop gently on my legs’ goosebumps. With the choral field, I was clear, out of rust’s way.
I don’t know how to save the world, I’m not sure anyone does. But maybe along the way, we could make the journey a little lighter. Chase away the daily fear, with blankets and a song. Never to damage, but continue the path. In my youthful optimism, I can hear the choir sing.
It wasn’t a recognized brand name. The only “flying” it did was behind me as I ran. But I loved that wagon. It carried everything that was important to me. As red as I imagined my heart to be, I filled it with stuffed animals and baby dolls. I put a blanket down first so their backsides didn’t turn orange. Yes, it was rusted, but not through. It was strong. Carrying every dream that I imagined for myself, and all those I pulled behind.
They were bounced over gravel day after summer day. To the circus and picnics. To schools and playgrounds. To airplanes. To malls. To weddings. To the future. Anything, anywhere I could imagine. My fingers gripped the handle. My heart gripped the possibilities. I had everything.
I will admit in recent days, I have felt that if I were to touch my heart, my hand would come back orange. Tear-rusted. And it might be true. But I don’t love it any less. I don’t want to love anything less, or anyone less. So I feel it. Embrace it. And hang on! Because now is the time for more. More feelings. More dreaming. More possibilities. More love. Heart wagons filled and racing behind legs of youth. Forever with me. With us. As long as we hold on.
We asked for directions to the museum. She said we go up to the store “that has red things in the window, you know like tractors… sometimes they’re open, sometimes they’re not, but either way, turn right there, and go to the park and walk through in at an angle, no need to walk around, and then go up the hill, you can walk it, it’s easy, I walk there, and then there it is – right there!” She said it all in one breath. Dominique looked at me, “What?”
We got to the store with the red things. They were wagons. We had one as kids. I suppose it was my brother’s first. So many things were. But I do remember getting dragged behind him. Rust on my white summer shorts from the chipping red. (He had used that wagon for many years before I arrived.) I was dirty, but happy to be included at arm’s and wagon handle’s length.
As we got older, he no longer got to do all the firsts. I find my own, and my others. But he was there. I have the rust stains to prove it.
We don’t see each other often. We are sometimes open, sometimes not. The directions aren’t always clear. But I trusted him once. To lead me. To carry me. That is something to hold on to.
