There’s a “Big Yellow Taxi” situation currently unfolding in my family, except it has nothing to do with environmentalism and everything to do with drama. Normally we’re a pretty staid bunch, so some of my relatives are really struggling with this — their bodies are rejecting what’s happening. It’s a tricky thing to write about since it doesn’t directly involve me. And it’s harder still for another reason: I write here not only because of (hopefully unfounded) fears of memory loss, but because I hope that one day these posts will speak to my nieces and nephews and give them an idea of who I once was if I’m only a shadow of myself by the time they wonder.
It’s their mom, my sister, who is behind the wheel of the Big Yellow Taxi, possibly about to steer it off a cliff. Unfortunately, there is nothing the rest of us can do but watch; she’d run over anyone who tried to get in her way. That’s usually how things go with her, as her kids will undoubtedly understand by adulthood. I don’t like having to approach this so obliquely, but her story isn’t mine to tell. Yet the toll it’s taking on others seems too large to ignore. What I’ll say for now is there are a few striking parallels between what she’s going through with her spouse and what Crankenstein and I are going through with each other.
There are also some glaring dissimilarities, so it’s not a perfect match, but it’s given me a lot to think about lately. How does Joni Mitchell figure into this? Well, as I alluded to recently in one of the more personal posts I’ve written here, there was a lot of drama in my extended family when I was a kid. Much of it came from oddball grandparents and great-grandparents, not to mention my parents’ colorful siblings, but over time they either mellowed or died (the ultimate mellowing) and for years things have mostly been blissfully boring. That’s about to change for the worse as a new generation mounts its own spectacles.
On a lighter note, there have been more trips to the library that I’ll document soon and I’m done with a slew of medical appointments. That frees up a little extra time for reading, movies, and preparing to do something nerdy and completely out of character (for I am lousy at crafts): I’m going to build a model lighthouse. Go ahead, make a face and ask “What the hell? A lighthouse?! A model lighthouse?!” That’s how Crankenstein and Best Friend reacted, with confusion and amusement.
It’s an ambitious undertaking for a novice, but in the words of Elvis, “It’s now or never.” My dominant hand is living on borrowed time; assembling and painting something that requires precision will only get more difficult from here on out. Besides being clumsy (feel free to place odds on whether I’ll accidentally glue myself to something), I’m woefully inexperienced with this kind of work. As a kid I made the usual crooked Popsicle stick cabin for art class and assembled a few cheap model cars purchased at hobby stores with my dad. None of it left much of an impression.
To minimize screwups, I’ll first practice sanding and painting some cheap, premade craft store birdhouses. Once I get the hang of that I’ll assemble the small keepers’ house that goes with the lighthouse. And then, if I’m ready for the big leagues, I’ll start in on the lighthouse itself. Crankenstein, concerned about my tendency to drop things and Muriel’s habit of eating first and asking questions later, asked me not to tinker on these projects around my canine companion. I agreed and set up shop in the Grandma Suite for this purpose.
The Grandma Suite is our guest bedroom, so named because it’s mostly filled with hand-me-downs from my grandmothers. The furniture set was originally purchased by Nana, my great-grandma, decades ago; it accompanied her to the retirement community where she spent her final years. When my paternal grandma inherited it, she made the sentimental decision to save it for when she moved to the same community. That wasn’t in the cards for her, what with the foreclosure, but it was the furniture she used while living with my parents.
When she moved into a nursing home, she couldn’t bring the bedroom set. None of her kids or grandkids wanted it — it was mass-produced, out of style, and banged-up in places — but she insisted it remain in the family. I felt obligated to respect her wishes, so when my parents started threatening to junk it I paid to have it transported to our house, which is sparsely furnished on account of the student loans.* Then I decorated the room we stashed it in with odds and ends from each of my grandmas, including the linens. (The rugs I got from Target.) At first it looked quite grandmotherly indeed, enough to elicit laugher from some relatives and shudders from others:
Since then I bought a cute quilt and a few other decorative items to make it more inviting for visitors:
This cheap IKEA desk is where I’ll assemble the lighthouse:
This brownstone birdhouse, $5 on sale, arrived today. An arched door had fallen off its hinge and broke in two. I glued it back together, tightened mini-clamps around it while it dried, and began experimenting with sanding, first trying a pet grooming Dremel that Muriel won’t tolerate and then an emery file from a basic model toolkit purchased for this misadventure. An old Caboodle from the ’90s houses other necessities for now, and I’ll head to the dollar store and art supply store once I have a better idea of what I’m missing. Once the brownstone is complete, I’ll post a photo that hopefully isn’t too embarrassing.
* It came with a second dresser, shorter but wider, that’s in the bedroom I share with Crankenstein. The drawers are odd sizes that don’t fit much clothing, but separate dressers improved our Odd Couple marriage.