Oh how I loved those trips to Uncle Lon and Aunt Marilyn’s in Camarillo. It usually started with a call from Uncle Lon. He’d pull the plug from his washing machine and call dad telling him, “The washer’s on the fritz. Won’t spin.” I think it was code for, “Stop being a hermit and come socialize with your family.” Whatever it was, I loved it.
Uncle Lon lived in a huge (in my childish eyes) old Colonial house he’d purchased for the ridiculously low sum of 20k or something like that back in the early seventies or late sixties. I don’t ever remember him in any other home and he lived there until I was graduated from High School.
The house has several memories that come back to me every time I think of it. The big double doors. The way the bathroom smelled when I came in from the jacuzzi. Somehow the chlorine mixed with the air freshener and the shampoo to create a perfume that is etched in my memory. The wooden folding chairs in the closet next to that same bathroom. I thought Uncle Lon must be RICH because of those chairs. The odd things a kid assumes.
Aunt Marilyn’s tiny frames. They held pictures of her and her mother or sisters. They were all black and white and the frames were beautifully intricate. They fascinated me.
The upstairs bathroom. I was entranced by a padded toilet seat. I can’t imagine why now but as a child it screamed of decadence. Snort.
The front bedroom with its patchwork of carpet squares. I remember thinking it was so exciting to have a room with different textures AND colors in the carpet.
The food. I remember the food. Aunt Marilyn almost always had a cobbler made. (She probably did it once but in my mind, Aunt Marilyn’s equals cobbler.) Their pantry always had the best cereals and cookies (stuff my parents never bought!). And then there was the Sees. She had an appreciation for fine chocolate and there seemed to be a box of the stuff in the house all the time! (Again, it was probably only at holidays or something but it SEEMED like all the time. Aunt Marilyn cut every single piece in half so as to know what she was eating as she did.
I loved her voice. I loved to hear her talk. I have no idea what she ever talked about- I don’t think I paid attention. I’d just sit in the room and read a book while she filed her nails (in my mind, Aunt Marilyn is always filing her nails) and read her magazines.
Magazines. She had a system. With a stack beside her, she’d go through the magazine first, ripping every single tear-out inside. Whether free perfume samples or renewal/subscription cards or even coupons, if it wasn’t a full glossy page, it came out. Then she read. Mom and I always found it slightly comical. Ok, we found it hillarious.
The backyard was a paradise. There was a moderate patch of dichondra… I thought it was beautiful. In my mind, it was “one leaf clover.” I even sang the old song, “I’m looking over, a lawn of clover…” There were flower beds with zinnias. I don’t know what else- I can’t remember. I just remember the zinnias. The patio took up half the yard and was fully covered. It had a porch swing, a single swing, and some kind of table I think. The other half was a cover over the jacuzzi. I loved that jacuzzi. Then, of course, there was a side yard where he grew turnips, beets, and rhubarb. Sweet peas. Green Beans. Oh I loved their garden.
Out front, was the world’s most beautiful avacado tree. We always left with grocery bags of avacados. I hated those things- but I loved the tree.
At some point, Dad’s guitar would come out and the best part of the visit would come. We’d all call out our favorites- I think dad dreaded my requests.
“… they call the risin’ sun. And it’s been the ruin of many poor girl…”
I was the mother of three before I knew he was singing about a brothel!
