Dispatches From Memory Lane, Part One
A Deeply Personal Glimpse Into My Unusual Childhood
Pat Conroy begins his great literary masterpiece, The Prince of Tides, with these lines: “My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.” I know that he did not have the arid high desert of Taos, New Mexico in mind when he wrote those lines. But that is my wound. That is the geography of my soul.
And this is one of the stories that I rarely tell unless I can look you in the eyes.
Last week I turned 45. We just so happened to be vacationing in the mountains of northern New Mexico where I was born and raised. So of course it made sense to take a trip down memory lane and visit all of my childhood haunts. And by “visit” I mean drag unwilling children around The Enchanted Circle and give them a tour of my old stomping grounds.
I’m not sure if all parents feel compelled to do this. But I remember my father doing the same thing when he took us to visit the cattle ranch where he was raised in south Texas. I was maybe seven or eight and I remember being bored and frustrated that he kept driving around and pointing at things. I just wanted to hurry up and go tubing in the river. Now I understand that he was trying to tell us who he was. We didn’t listen of course. And I regret that deeply.
The other thing I couldn’t have possibly understood at that age is that so much of who we are (who my father was) is connected to the geography of where we are raised. It informs every part of us.
I’ve been trying to explain this to my children for years. They’ve heard the stories of how I attended a two-room schoolhouse from Kindergarten through 8th grade. But until last week they had no concept of what that actually meant. They’re city kids. They can’t comprehend most things rustic, much less rural and—in this case—poverty stricken. They live in a town so pretty it’s like the shine on a soap bubble. Everything is new. Everyone is nice. They get to play sports and instruments and they never have to wonder where lunch comes from during summer vacation.
So when we pulled up to the abandoned school, my eighteen-year-old leaned forward from his spot at the back of our rented Suburban and asked, “What kind of hodgepodge shit is this?”
I had to laugh.
Hodgepodge indeed.
I attended this school from 1983 through 1992. There were two classrooms: Kindergarten through 3rd in the first (we called it “The Little Room”) and 4th through 8th (“The Big Room”) in the other. There were two teachers (one for each room) a secretary (also the teacher’s assistant), a chain-smoking custodian (her name was Snookie and she only had one lung and if memory serves she always had a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth—whether indoors or out), and a lunch lady (Mrs. Cook—although I can’t remember whether this was her name or her profession). For the entire nine years that I attended Tres Piedras Elementary School, there were only four students in my grade. There were less than fifty students total. It was an hour bus ride to and from our home on the mesa.
My memories of this place are split. Many of them are typical. Chalkboards and three-legged-races and homework and icky cafeteria food. But some of them are painful. Being mocked at the front of the class by a (less-than-stellar) teacher who made me cry and then shamed me for not being able to perform long division on command before an audience. (That’s when I learned that math is dangerous—you’ll never convince me otherwise).
I have always joked that my childhood resembles a mishmash of Laura Ingles meets the hippie movement. But getting out of the car last week made me realize that it was actually something else. Something that you can’t really describe—much less understand—unless you’ve experienced it yourself. When we stepped onto the cracked and overgrown pavement, we were hit by the smell of melilot. It’s a varietal of sweet clover. Tall with yellow blooms. And it smells pungent and very green. It had completely taken over what was once the playground. I thought about walking through the blooms and trying to find the old merry-go-round but I grew up in this part of the country and have never been able to shake my fear of hidden rattlesnakes.
I’m not sure when the school was abandoned. It was after I graduated but before my siblings did. All I know is that it had to do with a dispute between two different districts and who would get the taxes from a local perlite mine. What it meant in reality, however, is that the school was shut down overnight. Someone took the desks and chairs, but all of the books remain. The electricity has long since been shut off, but the doors are unlocked and many of the windows are broken. Mouse droppings litter every surface. The bathrooms are a full-blown hazmat scene. But for some reason all of the old basketball jerseys are in a box on the supply room floor. And they still reek of Snooki’s cigarettes.
I was most interested in the books, however. Someone had ransacked the library and the books were dumped on the few remaining shelves, scattered across the tables, and stacked on the floors. Each book was a memory. A tiny nugget of my childhood. There was the exact copy of The Diary of Anne Frank that I read in sixth grade! It sat on top of a teetering pile. Untouched. Uncorrupted. No water stains or dust or rips. On the floor was a line of encyclopedias that I flipped through for every grade school history report. (“Yes,” I had to tell my children, “That was long before Google was invented.”) Some vagrant must have broken in and taken their vengeance on the card catalogue because it was spread across the library floor.
I didn’t realize until last week that there were bars on the windows.
You’re stuck here, those bars said. You can’t get out.
Except I did.
My husband was bemused with our little adventure. He’s heard these stories for over twenty years but wasn’t able to fully grasp them until he walked that lone hallway. My sister and I reminisced. My mother was quiet. My brother-in-law thought the entire situation was great fun. My nieces and nephews were enchanted with the fact that we let them wander around an abandoned schoolhouse. And my kids? They kept looking at me with this expression that I can only describe as pensive.
This is where mom came from? This is where she went to school? This was her world before we existed? But also: This is kind of scary. And weird. And none of it makes sense. Who goes to school in a place like this?
We wandered. We swapped stories. We laughed. We poked through papers and bulletin boards and told the children not to touch anything. NO, SERIOUSLY DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING—THAT IS MOUSE CRAP.
And then I saw the book.
I’ve been trying to remember the name of this novel for thirty years. You know how it is when you’re a kid. You read a book and you love it. It moves you. But it’s just one of many and the title slips away. You only remember How It Feels. All I could ever recall was that one of characters was named Eula Bee.
And there it was. Tucked onto the shelf. In the middle. Bookended by old Nancy Drew novels.
Wait For Me, Watch For Me, Eula Bee by Patricia Beatty.
I loved that book. Loved it with my entire heart when I was a kid. Good God, how it made me cry. I’ve always felt as though I betrayed its memory by not remembering the title.
We didn’t stay much longer after that. Maybe ten minutes or so. We had other adventures planned that day. Other things to show the kids. (Part Two of this series coming soon). And in the end there was only so much to see. These ghosts loom large in our minds but revisiting them always puts them in proper perspective. They’re always smaller. Not that scary after all.
As I made a final pass through the final classroom of my childhood, I looked down at the pile of papers in the corner. And what should return my wistful gaze but a first edition hardcover copy of Dances with Wolves.
Of course.
Because why not?
There’s no way of knowing whether or not my children understood what I was trying to tell them last week.
This is me! This is where I came from! This place is my greatest wound! But it is also the very fiber of my being and it formed me. It made me who I am. And you would not exist in this world if not for this place and the impact it had on a young, smart, scared girl born in the sagebrush.
Only time will tell. But I tried. And maybe they understand me just a little more. Maybe one day that understanding will grow into respect. Maybe they will admire what it took to make it out. Maybe.
My wound is high desert, an arid landscape filled with sagebrush and pine. Sweet clover and Indian Paintbrush. Purple asters and scrub cedar. Mountains. Skies likes scrolls and summer storms and long flat mesas and ravines so deep they’re frightening to drive across. It is a harsh place. Untenable. Nearly impossible to live. Hardscrabble, the pioneers called it. When you grow up here, you understand implicitly that no one is coming to save you.
I know what you’re wondering. Did I take the books? Did I steal them? Because let’s be honest, they’re going to sit there until the brutal New Mexico climate does its work and they crumble into dust. They will never be claimed. They will never be read again or loved or passed on. No, Dear Reader, I have never stolen a book in my life.
I checked them out from the library.
Thanks so much for sharing. Yes, I believe our children need to see and, if possible, experience at least some part of our childhoods. I took my daughter to see the Santa Fe Trail ruts. She didn't even want to get out of the car. (So, just know their disinterest is universal.) Absolutely loved "The Frozen River".
Ariel,
I knew on some periphery level, from a writing class you once taught, that your childhood had come with challenges different from those of some other kids. So when this post appeared days ago, I knew I would wait to read it when my mind was ready—with no distractions. I knew the story would be heartfelt and beautiful and relevant. I would need to absorb. And today, I was able to put all of my life’s normal pressures aside and sit with your eloquent words. It feels good to be moved to tears. And yes, your children will understand you better now, just as you do yourself. Thank you for sharing. ❤️