Tag: imaginations

Within Close Range: The Upstairs Universe

The adult-free upstairs is our universe, our private world of fun and games and funny voices, where Jim’s rolled up socks turn into stink bombs of such infamy that as soon as you see him take off a shoe, you run… 

as fast as your stockinged feet along a polished wood floor can take you.

It’s also where fuzzy, red carpeting turns to molten lava and chairs and tables become bridges, and the sofa, an island where captives and carpet monsters fight to the death in battle after battle.

In the universe upstairs, sloped-ceiling closets and dark crawlspaces (too-small-for-adults places) become hideaways where we can bring pillows and posters, flashlights and stuffed animals, and write secrets and swear words on the 2 x 4s and plaster board.

And listen to Mom in the kitchen below, until the heater switches on and the great metal shafts fill with air and fill our ears with rumbling.

At the very top of the back steps, behind a tiny door (not more than three feet square), Jim has spent the entire day building a spaceship. Fabricated from old outlets and switches, and a roll of duct tape.

With Mark as his co-pilot and imagination as his rocket fuel, he rallies us to climb into his crawlspace capsule. 

I sit back in the darkness, surrounded by boxes of memories –  Mom’s heirloomed wedding dress at my elbow and Christmas decorations at my back – anxious for the countdown.

Excited for blast off.

For leaving the earth far behind.

Calling to his co-pilot to flick switches labelled with a big, black magic marker, then moving his hands up and down his own duct-taped controls, I hear the sputters and rumbles of Jim’s vocal-powered rockets.

Hugging my big, Pooh Bear, I watch our fearless pilot, in the beam of a dangling flashlight, lean back and call to his unlikely crew through the cup of his hand:

“Hang on! Here we go! Ten… Nine… Eight…”

Jim’s rumbles begin to rise.

“Seven… Six… Five… Four…”

I feel the crawlspace shake and rattle.

“Three… Two… One… BLAST OFF!”

I squeeze that silly, old bear and close my eyes to see the fast-approaching cosmos…

And there I float in the infinite black. 

In the infinite stars. 

Until Jim shouts, “Meteors!” and all hell breaks loose in our top-of-the-stairs cockpit.

The hallway light suddenly cuts through the cracks and the dark – and the meteors – and the call of dinner brings us back to earth.

Within Close Range: Sixteen Steps in Three Parts

Part One:

At the end of the front hall is a door leading to steps – sixteen in all – winding one-eighty degrees to the upstairs hall; a four-paneled portal to the children’s domain, keeping first floor parents separate.

And sane.

It’s also vital for a game we play, set into motion by two things:  a large box arriving, and Mom and Dad leaving. 

As soon as headlights disappear down the driveway, we begin grabbing every cushion and pillow from every sofa, chair and bedroom; and meeting at the top of the winding staircase, toss one after another over the railing until we’ve created a tottering stack of softness, penned in by the aforementioned door. 

Flanked by wild smiles at the top of the stairs, Mark, in a Magic Marker race car (we secretly souped up earlier), is pushed down the steep, carpet-less track. But the dreaded hairpin turn half-way down, quickly ends the Cardboard Box Jockey’s run, just inches from where the ocean of cushions begins. 

When the race car gets totaled and tossed aside, there’s still the pile of pillows.

We all agree, 

Mark’ll jump first. 

To make sure it’s safe. 

And when he climbs from the pile unscathed, we each take turns taking the plunge.

Failing to recognize Jim’s bored, half-crazed eyes, things take a turn and Mark suddenly finds himself dangling over the railing, as a Swanson’s T.V. Dinner threatens to reappear through fearless, but foolish, upside-down taunts. 

Inverted arms defiantly crossed.

Jim slightly loosens his grip around the youngest’s ankles, and smiles like the devil. 

But we know he’ll never let go… not intentionally. 

Not specifically intentionally. 

Part Two:

Changing Malibu Barbie’s outfit for her big date with Ken, I hear Jim making his way along the hallway, moving toward the curving, front staircase next to my bedroom. 

As he passes the door and starts down the stairs, I’m suddenly, impulsively, spurred to action. 

(My future line of defense: Lack of Premeditation.)

Quietly reaching around the corner to the light switch at the top of the staircase, I – 

Click. 

Thump-bump-bump-HUMPF-thump-bam-thud. 

Down Jim goes like an angry sack of potatoes.

“GOD DAMN IT! Who turned off the lights?!” 

Tittering nervously, I creep away in the dark, feeling both revenged after years of big brother torment, and remorseful for my utter lack of foresight. 

My ad-libbed evil-doing results in a broken, big toe. 

And Jim’s thirst for my blood. 

Damn my telltale tittering. 

History soon has the gall to repeat itself when a few days later, there in my room – with no thoughts of wrongdoing, whatsoever – I hear familiar footsteps (now favoring one foot) heading down those cursed stairs. 

Then something wicked this way come.

I tip-toe to the door.

Again.

And quietly reach for the switch.

Click.


Thump…thump-thump-thump-bump-BAM-thud! 

“ANNE! I’m going to kill you!” 

With no parents home for refuge, I run for my life. 

Ducking and covering. 

Trying to avoid any siblings who might give me away – which means ALL of them. 

Finally hiding in the dark of the sauna, desperate for the familiar footsteps of a returning adult, I can hear Jim hobble and rage, screaming my name and vowing retaliation.

“I’ll plead temporary insanity.” 

But un-consoling are the cedar walls surrounding me.

Guessing the worst is over (or a parent has returned) when the house goes quiet, I open the door to the outside world.

“Even if he’s still mad,” I reason aloud and unconvincingly, “he’ll never catch me with a broken toe.” 

“Two broken toes!” growls a voice from behind the door.

Part Three:

With my bedroom right next door, 

I know the comings and goings of all stairwell travelers.

I hear when Chris is breaking curfew 

and Jim is looking for trouble; 

when Mia is sleepwalking, 

and Mark is shuffling downstairs for comfort.

From the bottom step, Mom’s “Sweet dreams” 

gently rise into our bedrooms and into our dreams; 

while Dad’s call for Inspection 

bursts up the stairwell and down the hall, 

like an air raid siren, 

sending bodies scattering in all directions.

I listen for Mom and Dad’s footsteps below. 

For Dad to toss his keys into the pewter bowl. 

I listen for the sound of the staircase door opening. 

Pleased to hear Mom’s high-heeled footsteps 

slowly ascending the winding staircase, 

to give good night kisses all the way down the hall.