Category Archives: Family

It is the place that forms the backdrop to more childhood memories than I realized. It was here, at the top of the stairs, peering through the balusters, that my brother and I watched surreptitiously for Santa when we were kids.

It is the place where we searched for an imaginary bunny conjured by our cousin Grace, in her efforts to keep us occupied and out from underfoot. (Not calculating the obsessive, tenacious loyalty of children when given the benefit of attention and conversation.)

It is the place where I listened to my grandmother try to defend me to my father, saying, “He’s just different” to which my Dad replied with curt exasperation, ‘He’s mean.”

It’s the place where, when frightened as kids will sometimes be in the dark of night, I pleaded, begged, and screamed for my mother to not make me go into my bedroom alone, through fears and tears and an irrational and paralyzing terror, and where she was so mad she refused to let me come downstairs.

It’s the place where I watched with wonder the comings and goings of guests and visitors to our home, and the way they presented themselves to the world. I could peer around the corner and see the front door, watching from that undetected vantage point, though some people somehow knew they were being watched, their eyes traveling up and almost catching me. For the most part, I was good at keeping hidden; I knew which part of the top flight of stairs to avoid so it wouldn’t creak and reveal my presence. I knew that if I could see someone’s eyes, enough of my head was showing that they could spot me too. For the most part, though, I could do what I do best – observe – from an unknown and unseen location.

It’s the place I decorated with light-festooned holiday garland ~ first in traditional red and green, then making an unlikely detour into a Victorian-inspired rose and pink hued theme, accented by strands of white braided rope and pearls. (Yes, I was already that gay, way back when.)

So much of life played out on that staircase, but most people were usually too transitory to notice. I was never like that. I always noticed. I remembered the last few times my Dad carried me up those stairs, before I got too old, too big. I remember bounding down them on Christmas mornings, as well as trudging reluctantly up them on still-light summer nights. I remember being so mad – at the world, at my mother, at myself – that I jumped off the last four steps and pounded my heels into the landing so hard that I couldn’t walk for the rest of the day. I remember sliding down them backwards, stomach on the soft carpet, feet first – just like my nephew Noah does today. I don’t remember being part of anything, but I remember watching much of it unfold, all from that lofty perch.

A number of years ago, when I was on winter break from college, my brother and I traveled to Bob’s Tree farm to pick up the family Christmas tree. We were finding our way back into each other’s lives as adults, after a few tumultuous years of adolescent angst directed more or less at one another. We hopped in the Blazer and drove out of Amsterdam, along the winding back-roads to Galway. The day was cold, but bright. A wind whipped over the exposed landscape, and we hurriedly made our selection. Once the tree was tied to the top of the car (normally we’d have placed it in the back, but neither of us wanted to vacuum needles out later) we turned back onto the windy stretch of road.

I forget who was driving, but I remember looking in one of the rear-view mirrors and seeing the tree dangling precariously off the side of the car. I tried to warn my brother but it was too late ~ the next moment I watched as our tree rolled over the side of the road into a field.

At this point I started cracking up. My brother was less amused, which only made me laugh harder. We backed up and stepped out into the wind. I could barely move for laughing so much, but somehow we got it back on the car, tied more securely down, and made it home without further incident.

This year, I told him that we should pick up the tree again. It was a bonding experience, and a happy memory – one that I hoped would remind us that we were brothers no matter what. We’ve been through a few issues in the past year, and it was my small, unsaid way of moving past things, of trying a bit of forgiveness. Plus, he could bring my niece and nephew, who had been talking of nothing but picking up the tree over the last week.

I drove from Albany, coming in the opposite direction, and taking a different set of winding roads that ultimately led to the tree farm. It was a brutally cold night, black too, before the recent snow cover. The darkness comes so much earlier at this time of the year. After miles of scant houses and no street lamps, I entered a more populous area of Galway, where most of the homes glowed with Christmas lights, and a few restaurants and shops lent a happy and unexpected visage of civilization.

When I arrived at the tree farm (a few minutes late due to an unmarked road), my niece and nephew were playing amid the trees and reindeer (apparently reindeer are real – they just don’t fly, or having glowing red noses so bright). I watched their eyes filled with wonder, and Emi led me around to see the one that was resting near the back of the pen. Noah was more concerned with running about with his plastic saw, ready to take down a tree at a moment’s notice. Given the frigid night, I recommended bundling back into the car and heading over to The Cock & Bull, a cozy restaurant filled with fireplaces and decent pub fare.

My brother and I had gone there last year, and I always wanted to return at holiday time. It used to be a barn, and retains many of those trappings, offering a warm, rustic respite from the cold and the night. We were seated next to a Christmas tree and a roaring fire, and the kids ran about a bit as my brother and I talked. Sometimes I think that when left to our own devices, without the maelstrom of family or the influence of others, my brother and I would do just fine. This night proved that.