Almost home

I’m now that weirdo who gets up before the house is awake. I’m at my aunt’s house in Durango. I’ve always loved my aunt Nancy’s house, though it used to be Lubbock. We’d come back from wherever we were. And we’d go to Aunt Nancy’s, barge through the door to find my cousins in the TV room. They’d catch us up on all we’d missed while overseas—whether it was 90210 or Vanilla Ice or Jeffrey Dahmer. When the adults wanted the tv, she’d cut a watermelon in half, stick a bunch of forks and spoons in it and send us out in the yard. (She’s a genius now that I think about it.)

The house is in Durango now. But it feels the same. Quilts nearby in case you get cold. The record collection, behind the sofa—lots of Jim Croce and Motown. Uncle Terry used to put those on and spin us in the living room. Novels on side tables and shelves in every room, reach out your arm and you’ll find a novel to read. There’s still the bugle on the wall that always pissed me off when I was 8 because it had a little honker on the end of it. I was pretty sure if that honker weren’t there, I could play it.

There were rooms in my grandma’s house that kids weren’t allowed to enter, much less play in. Antique sofas and china cabinets. But Aunt Nancy’s house was a home. The tv room is made for lounging and the kitchen is made for cooking and the fridge and pantry are help yourself. She skipped the modern, sterile craze and kept piling quilts next to the sofas. The sofas are made for naps. Even Woody knows he doesn’t have to ask.

She makes these quilts now that aren’t for napping. And I’m going to convince her to let me buy a couple.

Then I’m headed home. Finally. One more stop, Amarillo. Then a beeline for Austin. But I’m not telling him that yet. He’s enjoying his Aunt Nancy’s where kids could be kids and a dog gets to be a dog.

(nancywoodsartquilts on insta)