Memoir #2

My mother is very fond of oriental décor.  The first memory I have of seeing oriental-style objects in our home is when I was about 12 years old.  Actually, it was more of an ecclectic, ersatz oriental, comprised of objects and furnishings gathered bit-by-bit from such exotic stores as Pier 1 and Spencer's, but it was lovely to her. 

She actually got much better at this type of décor after they moved to San Diego about 20 years ago, creating a much more tasteful, harmonious and balanced ambience. But the house in which I grew up in upstate New York was her first attempt at it.  I think she wanted something different from the basic beige that everyone else seemed to have in those days.  I always had the impression mom would have preferred to have been a "society lady," rather than the wife of a blue collar telephone lineman who belonged to the union, Masonic Temple and volunteer fire department.  Her unique decorative expression was, I think, her way of expressing that part of herself that didn't want to be like every other average, middle class woman in the suburbs.

The oriental flavor began its emergence in the large, rectangular family room Dad built at the back of our house when I was 12.  It was the largest room in the house, my mother's pride and joy.  It became the focal point of all of our gatherings.

The interior entrance to the room was carved from the back kitchen wall, behind the large, oval kitchen table. Mom hung colored plastic beads in the doorway; they rattled every time someone went from one room to the other.  Eventually, she tired of the constant rattle and tangle of the beads and tied back about half of them to facilitate movement between the rooms. 

The kitchen window above the sink was removed, the edges were finished and the space became a pass-through into the family room.  There was something comforting about sitting on the couch watching television and looking through that pass-through into the lighted kitchen beyond.  Sometimes mom would be at the kitchen sink, and we'd all chat through the opening.

The family room was the first in the house to have wall-to-wall carpeting.  In true 1970s style it was that now-gaudy orange/red/yellow shag that seemed to define the era.  Dad even covered a telephone cable spool with it. 

This spool became the "coffee table" sitting in that area inside the "L" formed by the couch against the far wall and the two occasional chairs that were against the wall below the kitchen window pass-through.  We could prop our feet on the table because it was covered by the rug, making it somehow acceptable to do to this table what one could never do to a real coffee table. 

On one part of the table was located a shallow square plastic tray that mimicked Japanese lacquer.  It always held an etched brass tea server, ostensibly from India (one of her Pier 1 finds).  An incense holder and candle also adorned the tray. 

The incense came from Spencer's.  It seemed somewhat "naughty" to me, because everyone knew that Spencer's was a hippie store.  They carried black lights, incense, highly fragrant body oils, psychedelic posters, suspiciously penis-shaped neck massage devices that I struggled not to look at, along with many other things that you just didn't find at J.C. Penney's or Naum Brothers.  Mom was particularly fond of sandalwood incense. I still love that smell today, although my incense of preference is Nag Champa.

The furniture was a set made of rattan.  The table surfaces were glass on top and canework on the lower level.  I hadn't seen anything like them in friends' homes.  The table lamps were also from Pier 1, fashioned from large etched brass bases with shades perched atop.  The cushions on the couch and occasional chairs were custom upholstered.  This seemed to me to be of some import because mom made considerable mention of it. 

A black metal fireplace graced the far corner.  That area also was unique.  For a firewall dad installed metal mesh, which he then covered with white, cement-like goo.  Prior to slathering on the goo, he and mom went to Frear's Lawn and Garden and bought sacks of white marble chips.  They spent days poking through the chips to pick out just the right ones.   Mom carefully placed those chips of white marble, one by one, into the goo that had been applied to the wire mesh.  The result was actually very nice, a corner adorned with white marble chips from floor-to-ceiling with a black corner fireplace sitting in front.  The raised hearth held loose white marble chips to catch any sparks and prevent them from igniting the nearby shag carpet.

The other corner on that side of the room held a rattan and cane bentwood rocker.  Against the wall between that rocker and the fireplace was some kind of set up for the stereo equipment.  In those days, it was a phonograph with a plastic lid (very modern!) and an eight-track cassette player.  It was early in Chuck Mangione's career.  He was a favored son from Rochester, and a student at the prestigious Eastman School of Music.  His first album was our first eight-track.  We were such a cool family!

The entire room was paneled with dark imitation wood paneling.  There were black vertical lines recessed in the pattern at variable intervals.  The ceiling was angled, high end up against the original part of the house, lower at the back of the room.  It was covered with white ceiling tiles. 

A big sliding glass door opened out to the back yard.  The Christmas tree stood in front of that door each year.  We didn't go outside through that door in the winter.  We usually went out through the garage.  We had so many wonderful Christmas and New Year's parties!

We were the first in our neighborhood to have a "built in" pool.  We also had a screen house that was set on a patio made of colored concrete squares.  The screen house was furnished with matching pieces.  I remember lots of pool parties and barbecues, both with family and with groups of friends from my church group, and later, from high school. 

My first wedding was held in that yard, in front of the pool.  Dad built a trellis and mom decorated it with white mums and daisies.  Fragrant white sweet alyssum and daisies lined the garden behind the pool.  Mom spent weeks planting those so they'd be perfect for the wedding. 

We rented chairs and lined them up to face the trellis between the family room and the pool.  Dad and I walked arm-in-arm from the family room, through the sliding glass door, down an aisle that was created between the rows of chairs, to the trellis where my nervous bridegroom waited with the minister from the local Presbyterian Church. 

My family wasn't affiliated with the church, but I went to Sunday school there with the kids from around the corner.  Their parents drove us, which was easy on mom and dad on Sunday mornings.  We kids were carted off to Sunday school and my parents stayed home.  The neighbor kids' pious parents later divorced. 

Anyway, I figured that was the best place to get a minister for the wedding.  Jeff and I met while I was in the Air Force and a few months earlier took a week's leave to drive up to my parents' place to plan the wedding.  We joined the Presbyterian Church at that time to ensure that the minister would officiate.  I think he realized we'd never actually attend the church, but he was gracious about it.  He surprised all of us at the rehearsal barbecue the night before.   We were all drinking whiskey sours - one of my dad's specialties - and offered the minister a soda.  He asked if he could have a whiskey sour instead.   

A college friend played her guitar and sang "The Wedding Song" as we walked down the aisle.  "Annie's Song" was the recessional.  How 1970s we were!  The cake was set in the screen house, on a table decorated with a white plastic table cloth.  The screen house made the most sense, since it was in the shade and it would keep the flies off of the icing. 

We had a lovely time that day, as we did on many days in our strangely decorated family room.  There was love, family, and friendship amidst times of anger, fear, and discord.  Happy memories were made, and as I look back, I now feel the love and the pride that my parents gave to me, and I recognize the painstaking work that went in to building that home and security - individual stone by individual stone.  Oddly, I forgot about much of that until now.

I haven't seen most my cousins or any of my high school or college friends since the wedding in July, 1977.  Jeff and I divorced after only six years of marriage.  Mom, dad and my sister moved to San Diego twenty years ago to be closer to their grandchildren - my kids, who, as adults, now live in other states.  My brother remains in upstate New York with his wife and son.  My sister and I rarely connect.  Dad died several years ago. 

Now, more than thirty years later, the house in which I grew up is occupied by someone else.  I wonder how the family room is decorated and whether there are parties.

Karen E. Kelsay © 2005  All rights reserved.