Somewhere in my attic, there is a brick. You’d never know. I mean, it’s the shape of a brick, indeed. There are only so many ways to disguise a rectangle. At first glance, it resembles a loaf of bread. In fact, most things made from brown yarn do resemble loaves of bread, in my experience, not that I have an extensive history steeped in earth toned yarns. This is the brick of bricks. It is the most high brick, better than all the others. It is so special that some long-ago ancestor, one of my grandmother’s sisters or perhaps a second cousin removed, cross-stitched a case for this treasure from brown skeins of varying shades. Imagine cutting plastic pieces of perfectly symmetrical tiny squares into a brick pattern and weaving brown yarn into each opening until there was no plastic visible at all, then sewing the brick inside of the rectangle. I seem to recall one of the sides has crosses of tan yarn woven into one corner, or is it a tan border on the front side? I forget. The brick of honor was a fixture of my childhood. I think it came to live with us around the time I started grade school. It was usually a doorstop. Sometimes, it was a bookend. Occasionally an ashtray sat on top of it, because “seventies.” Inevitably, there would be an occasion where visitors would come. You know, the pre-cell phone, pre-internet, pre-social media phenomenon that entailed relatives showing up on a late Saturday morning or an early Sunday afternoon out of the blue. (Crunch/crackle/slam), “Oh, look who’s here! Oh, Dina, go get your daddy. Tell him it’s Spider and Norma Lee and all the kids.” Mom would smile the smile of a woman who was outwardly happy yet internally terrified. Was the house clean enough? Was there enough ambrosia salad in the fridge? Was the sun tea ready to drink? The visit would culminate with my Aunt Norma Lee saying something like, “Now, Marsha, you grew up here in Seagoville, right? Didn’t your mother and them live in that old farmhouse by Watson Street?” My mom would disappear and return with the yarn incased brick. “Yes, Norma. Why, yes, Jerry and Karen and I did grow up on Watson Street in that old farmhouse. You know, they tore it down.” Her voice would crack a little. It would always startle me. My mother never cried. But, she would gather her wits and hold out her hand. Aunt Norma would extend her hands and accept the passing of the treasure as Momma said, “I went and got a brick the day they tore it down.”
Tracy Lawrence had a big country music hit back in the 90s. It was called Time Marches On. The hook for the chorus says, “The only thing that stays the same is everything changes. Everything chay eee yane gesssss.” The weight of these lyrics hit me like a pun intended ton of bricks this week. My husband needed me to accompany him on an errand that placed us very far away in an area of the metroplex I do not frequent unless I absolutely must, aka the DFW Airport area. It’s one thing to go to the airport to catch a flight to somewhere fabulous. It’s quite another thing to have to venture into the bowels of the airport area for any other reason. The errand culminated with us being in separate vehicles and me losing him in traffic. I prefer not to follow people, or be followed, through quick city traffic. I find it stressful. You have GPS. I have GPS. Please don’t watch me and critique my driving. We’re going to the same place. See you when I see you. Anyway, my GPS girl spoke to me. She said something about a quicker route and asked if that was an ok thing for her to do, the rerouting part. I love when inanimate objects speak politely. I said sure. She said, “Ok, girlfriend, hurry up and exit.” I wasn’t sure where I was for a bit. I drove through really nice areas and really scary areas. Dallas fascinates me in this manner. Turtle Creek gives way to the inner city ever so quickly though they seem lightyears apart. Anyway, I followed my phone’s command to turn left near downtown Dallas. Instantly, I knew where I was, even though I’ve never been inside. I saw the bull. I saw the sign. I saw the building. Chills went down my spine and goosebumps took over my arms. In front of me stood The Longhorn Ballroom, the premier Dallas honky-tonk turned venue for nearly 70 years. Oh, but the boot soles my parents wore down two stepping in that building would surprise the world. I could hear my mother’s voice. “Your daddy took me there when I was eight months pregnant with you, Dina. We saw Willy Nelson that night. It was April of 1967 and he wore a tuxedo with a gold medallion.” And, yet, the grass shoots through the asphalt now. The bull is missing most of his paint. But the building, if she could only talk, has stories to tell, so many stories. That’s where Bob Wills hollered. That’s where a bottle broke the nose of Sid Viscious when the Sex Pistols played Dallas. That’s where Run DMC refused to take the stage and a riot broke out. Life is funny that way. Things progress and everything gets better or worse. Change really is the only unchangeable thing in this world.
Out on my front porch, there sits a brick. I was riding around with my son one quasi-recent day. We drove by the old pharmacy in Seagoville where my grandmother worked. I gasped. I was right in the middle of explaining how my mom used to send little me into the pharmacy with .48 cents and a well-rehearsed speech about the cigarettes I was to buy when I rounded the corner. They were tearing down Smith’s Pharmacy. My son hopped out of the car, finagled the corner of a temporary chain link fence, and slid underneath. He got back into the passenger seat and handed it to me, my very own brick. I just need to learn cross-stitch.
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