Echoes of Light

The year was 1981. I was 16, a junior in high school, and thriving. I loved my school, my classes, my friends. My favorite course was geology—an exclusive class that accepted only ten students. Being vetted to get in felt like an honor. Then there was ceramics, a creative escape, and American history, taught by a passionate teacher who made every lesson come alive. My grades were soaring, and life felt steady. 

But change was coming. My mom, who had divorced my dad in 1975 and remarried in 1979, started discussing a move out of state with my stepfather.  My stepfather had a friend who promised steady work and a home—a large farmhouse, something my mom quickly latched onto. She had left her university job when she remarried, and now they worked janitorial shifts in the evenings. The idea of a fresh start took hold. 

My friends at school wanted to throw me a going-away party, but my mom resisted—our differing religions creating an invisible barrier. Still, they convinced her, and for two fleeting hours, we laughed, cried, and swore to write and stay in touch. They were my posse, my strength. When my mom arrived to pick me up, I could feel her discontent, but it didn’t matter. Those moments were ours. 

Then, in the middle of the semester, with barely any money, we packed up and drove three days across the country to a small Midwestern town. We arrived after midnight, exhausted, pulling into an old Victorian home my stepfather’s friend used for his business—painted bright purple. I collapsed onto a lumpy couch and, just as sleep swallowed me, was jolted awake at 6 a.m. by an ungodly shriek. 

Turns out, one of the uses of the tornado siren was the town’s alarm clock. And lucky us—it was positioned right across the street from where we slept. My stepfather, thoroughly amused, had conveniently forgotten to mention that part. 

Our new home sat on the other side of town, two minutes away, a place they called a house but was barely more than a shack. Once, it might have been charming, but now, it stood tired, worn-out—a shadow of something grand. My mother’s disappointment was immediate, but with no money left, we were stuck. 

The kitchen was a step down and roofed in corrugated plastic, flooding whenever it rained. The bathroom had paneling so flimsy that, in winter, snow drifted inside, piling against the bathtub. Still, there were small graces—the delicate glass doorknobs, the intricate woodwork. My room was upstairs, spacious, perched above what had once been the parlor. Cracked plaster, leaking roof, and in winter, ice forming on the inside of my window. At night, I heated bricks over the furnace, wrapped them in towels, and tucked them beside me to stay warm. 

I had one wall light. Somehow, a heavy wooden desk had found its way into my room—a sturdy, beautiful thing with a presence all its own. I loved that desk. My bed? Two box springs and a mattress on the floor, which I tried to fashion into a proper platform. No dresser, just a small hallway closet to store my clothes. 

I found solace in my “Seventeen Guide to Interior Decorating,” a book I cherished. Using its ideas, I attempted to shape my space and make it mine. At night, I heard scritches in the walls, tiny feet poking through holes in the plaster. One night, I woke up with a paint flake in my eye (I sometimes sleep with my eyes open). Fishing it out with water and a Q-tip was a battle, but taking me to the doctor was too much of a hassle for my mom, so I handled it myself. The next day, I moved my bed away from that section of the ceiling. 

And yet, I had moments of joy. After my baptism in 1978, I was gifted a record player, and with my ten treasured records, I sat at my desk, hairbrush in hand, pretending to be a disc jockey. I dreamed of being an archaeologist, a cake decorator, and an interior designer. I gazed out at the tree beyond my window, losing hours to daydreams. 

There’s more to tell, but that’s a story for another day.
—