Frankensteining

“Don’t step there!”

I stopped in my tracks at my pastor’s sharp words.

“There’s a hole in the floor, step around the board or you’ll fall through.”

Duly noted, I stepped carefully around the board.

This is not typical church talk, but I don’t go to a typical church. We recently acquired a decrepit abandoned building. I’m sure building inspectors have nightmares about buildings like this. Even I had a difficult time wrapping my head around what I saw.

The roof stopped being a roof quite some time ago and the water damage was catastrophic; mold and decay were everywhere. Animals had taken up residence and my body reminded me after working in the building that I should probably wear a mask: the intense migraine and the black stuff coming out of my nose wasn’t good.

The building sat vacant for several years, according to the utility company. It was as if these people just up and left; everything was still left in its place. Haunting, really. Nothing was packed up, nothing was put away. If you sat in the main office and ignored the inches of dust on everything and the mid-90’s computer monitor, you’d think whoever was there would be back in just a moment.

It was something straight out of a horror movie set, a church member commented. I agreed.

Like an old woman falling into dementia, this building’s demise had started well before complete abandonment. I threw out unopened junk mail post marked from 1987, school supplies, church items, children’s toys, random junk, obsolete books, rejects from a defunct rummage sale – it was all here – covered in dirt, mold, and bits of ceiling that caved in from the moisture. And that’s only the stuff I’ve found. My favorite find was the pristine box of audio reels from the 1970’s, yet I have no way of playing them.

In the end, the dementia won, ravaging this once beautiful building; it now belonged to the rats and the fungi. Her decline probably happened slowly, her condition chronic for years, before she drew her last breath when the lock turned for the last time. What was once a wellspring of life 100 years ago, had become an encased tomb filled with things no one would ever need in Heaven…or on earth for that matter.

There’s no electricity, so the hot Carolina summer is really felt in there. There’s no running water either. I’m pretty sure I missed my calling as a dramaturg, so I’m making up for that by going through all the things. I am in search of history of the building and any information I can find about its former inhabitants. I’ve found a few pieces, but I’m sure there’s more under the mire. I went into full genealogy mode and found its historical references online, but I want more than names. I want stories, and if I can find them, personal accounts.

Modern science can’t bring back the dead, let alone someone who’s mind and body were destroyed years earlier. Our church is firmly planted in the resurrection business and we’re going to revive this corpse into a beautiful healthy older lady again. It’ll take a lot of time, effort, and money – but we know this Guy – and He comes through in ways you didn’t think were possible.

I can’t wait to get back into that building to uncover her secrets.

4th of July of Yore

When I was a kid, in my world, the 4th of July was bigger than Christmas – I eagerly looked forward to it every year. 

The day would start early: our small town put on quite the 4th of July parade. I was up and ready to go by 7am, which was super early in those days. You could feel the excitement in the cool air of that summer morning. My dad, sister, and friend of the family who was like an uncle to me would park near the parade route and then walk to a perfect spot with our folding chairs. My mom usually stayed back to prep for the party.

The parade had a city marching band, color guard, police cars, fire engines, ambulances, horses, antique cars and tractors, as well as some oversized farm equipment. Cheerleaders, community groups, lavish floats – it was all here – and they often threw candy. My sister and I were always ready with brown lunch bags to collect as much as we could. 

After the parade, there were games and food booths in the community square. The foot races were my favorite and I usually won. The marching band would play more patriotic songs and water balloon fights would ensue once the sun got to be too much to bear. By 11, it was time to head home for lunch. The party was about to begin.

Lunch was an array of sandwich options to make your own sandwich. Every type of meat, cheese, condiment, several bread options, chips, and pasta salad – my mom sure knew how to entertain. My dad developed the best cooler the world for these parties: fill your washing machine with bags of ice and put pop and beer in it! Then when it all melts, drain and spin! 

People started to arrive and lunch was in full swing: my dad’s coworkers came, neighbors, and family friends – it was a full house. There were always enough kids for entertainment and every year was different. Sometimes we’d spend the afternoon at the neighborhood pool, playing in the basement, putting together a concert of patriotic songs, or playing croquet. Dinner was around 5, and you had your choice of a burger, hot dog, or brot – my dad was the grill master and my mom managed everything else. Guests would bring desserts and sides and they never disappointed. 

The fireworks didnt start until dark and it felt like it took forever to arrive. We’d drive to the local shopping center – this was the best place to watch – sometimes we’d sit under the bank drive up in folding lawn chairs. In later years, my friends and I would grab old bedsheets and watch the fireworks from the lawn of the funeral home. One year, the pyrotechnics got out of hand and lit the roof of a grocery store on fire. It was quickly put out with minimal damage, but it was the talk of the town for ages. In fact, you could still reference it today and someone would tell their perspective of the event.

After the fireworks, the party was over, all the people were gone. The kitchen was trashed. Everyone was exhausted. I loved every moment of it.

I miss celebrating the 4th in such a grand way. My parents don’t do the parties anymore. It’s too much work, my mom says, and she gets stuck with the prep, serving, and clean up, as my dad is too in the moment to really help. They’re in their 70’s now and they are slowing down. I used to go to Southport for their big celebration, but it feels weird now in this age of MAGA. Watching the fireworks downtown is fun, but it takes two hours to get home afterwards because of traffic. No thanks. Last year my husband and I went to Carolina Beach to watch the tourists set off fireworks illegally on the beach until the cops shut them down. 

It’s not the same as when I was a kid. 

And it will probably never be again. Yet I’ll always cherish the memories of those Independence Days of yore in my heart.