babs

A summer in New Hampsire meant days on Lake Winnipesaukee, when the sun was so bright that it made the freckles on her nose and shoulders appear; my cheekbones the color of strawberries and both of us with eventual tans. I would spend two months touring the small towns of NH, vising local haunts like the bridge where it was suggested that adolescents committed suicide, or just the place their angst drove them to indulge in drugs and promiscuity. We would ride past the abandoned paper mill, watching water race under our feet and wonder about the workers who had been misplaced when the mill was closed. And of course, the supposed whore house on the corner, looking susupicially like a crack house. The big pink house, I came to believe, was a place for single women, lacking money to sustain themselves and motivation to better their situation, so they turned to communal living and prostituting their bodies. This might never be confirmed.

In the afternoons, we would pack up the car with beach towels, cameras, books, our writing supplies, and of course, Thomas. Thomas was Babs' cousin, who began living with her family nearly six months before I arrived for the summer. His room was filled with more toys than one child could possibly play with in a week, and the had a love for cartoons, particularly those in the early hours of Saturday when he insisted we eat lucky charms in front of the television with him. He did not speak like other 10 year olds, nor did he have too many friends around that summer, so Babs and I took him everywhere we went. He did not understand our motivations for dragging him through the mall, or Big Lots, but he loved being around, was crazy about asking questions and never let Babs forget he was in the car. Thomas must have thanked her 100 times in a day for taking him with us.

Trips to the thrift store for $1 brown bag buys would consist of sorting for hours while Thomas would rummage through old jackets and suits, asking about every piece he stumbled across. He loved the shoes and would try them on, every pair at least once, and waltz around the store. The cement floors made me nervous as one clumsy move on his part could become quite a scene for the emotional youngster. Once the bag was filled with our most prized thrift finds, we would return to the car and drive to find the next place for creative reuse. New Hampshire, I am told, is known for thrift stores in odd small towns where some make an entire vacation out of bargain hunting and rifling through disregarded treasures.

the color red

recognizing potential and desire
lust for the morning makes my knees weak