This short story is a little different than most. First, you will read “Traditions” by Nan Ducklow, then you will read the rewrite I did – using “Traditions” as the prompt for “Memorial Day”.
TRADITIONS
There have only been two owners of the house. And there is a particularly good reason for that. There is
something special about the 1910 Georgian-style house that sits in the center of court that forms a “T” off a street lined with magnificent oak and maple trees. If you were to visit you would feel like you were at home.
The house envelops you, like it is wrapping its arms around you, encouraging you to stay. Although 164 years old, it maintains its charm and many of the original features. Over the years obvious improvements have been made – plumbing, electrical, and kitchen and bathroom renovations straight out of Architectural Digest.
Everything else is as it was.
Avery loves Memorial Day. It is celebrated with tradition in her household and has been since her family
purchased the house in 1951. Wake up early and place the American flag on the staff attached to the Doric column to the right of the heavy oak front door painted lipstick red. A very non-traditional color for her beautiful Georgian with its white cedar shingles and black shutters. Gather the family and walk en masse through the campus of the renowned college founded in 1848 to College Avenue to stake out the family’s claim along the sidewalk in front of Voight’s drug store for the Memorial Day parade. Cheer the floats adorned with red, white, and blue tissue paper stuffed in the chicken wire forms being pulled by trucks; applaud the various junior and senior high school bands and pep squads as they march past the reviewing stand; and wait expectantly for the dénouement of the parade – the award-winning drum and bugle corps performing John Philip Sousa songs as they march in perfect synchronicity.
After the parade, Avery purchases cherry-lime Rickeys from the drug store lunch counter and she and her
family along with hundreds of parade spectators walk to the centuries-old cemetery for the ceremonial laying of wreaths on graves of soldiers who fought, going back to the Revolutionary War, Civil War, Spanish American War through WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan and most recently, Ukraine, and Taiwan. Every year she places red geraniums at the gravesites of relatives who fought in those various theaters. It is a solemn experience; she would never change that part of the tradition.
The best part of the day is by far the family picnic under the gnarled apple tree on the north side of their yard. The tree was there long before the house was built. It is miraculous that it still stands. Legend has it that Johnny Appleseed came through this part of the state planting various species of apple trees, maybe even this one. A rope swing hangs from a massive branch, and there is a wooden picnic table that has seen better days under its boughs. It is at this picnic table that Avery and the family take their annual Memorial Day family photo. The adults sitting on the tabletop and bench and the kids in age order, cross-legged on the grass in front.
The photo shoot complete, the kids take off in all directions, hopping on bikes, or running down the ravine to the river below the house to skip rocks. Avery smiles as she watches her brood and walks back into the house, the entrance hall lined with the family Memorial Day picnic photos like a gallery. She stops in the spot where the 2074 photo will go and proceeds down the hallway, periodically touching past photos taken 50 years apart, 2024, 1974 and the first one taken in 1951, the first Memorial Day picnic in their special Georgian. She and her family have not aged a bit since moving in, only the fashion of the day belies the era of the many photos on the wall.
Indeed, Avery knew that her Georgian was her forever home.
MEMORIAL DAY
“I just love Memorial Day,” Avery said as she pushed open the heavy front door, which resisted with sustained creaks and squeals until finally succumbing, allowing an angular streak of sunlight to break the threshold.
“Why? It’s just like any other day, except this one is sponsored by the corporate Marxist workers who wish us to celebrate their every move, even if it does us, the regular folks, harm,” her brother, Max, muttered from behind. He’d been waiting more than an hour for his sister to finish her daily regimen of skin softening. When she’d finally bounded down the stairs, he could tell she’d been pampering a large section of scaly-looking skin on her neck. Shaking his substantial head for the millionth time, he bared his teeth as he expressed his displeasure. “What is it with you? Accept what you are and embrace it. You’ll live a happier life. I know I certainly am.”
“You little monster, you’re the most unhappy creature I know, so don’t lie to me and think I’ll just accept it. To respond to the first thing you mentioned, I love today for many reasons. First, we’ve been celebrating since we acquired the house in 1951.”
A deep chuckle interrupted Max as he was about to launch into the usual diatribe about how he hated the House, too.
“The House loves Memorial Day too,” the deep, resonating voice said. “House envelops you like it is wrapping its arms around you, encouraging you to stay. House loves what you are, Avery, and even what you are, Maximillian, though you test House a tad too much for Houses’ taste.”
Although 164 years old, the house was approaching elder status among the other Houses. The various residents of the House had maintained its external charm and many of what people described as ‘the traditional features’ since its construction.
“The House has always approved of the improvements inhabitants had made – indoor, plumbing, the most modern electrical service, and kitchen and bathroom renovations straight out of Architectural Digest,” Avery said as she patted the smooth railing that lined the expansive front porch.
“Indeed,” House agreed. “Thank you for the love you demonstrate daily. It does not go unnoticed. Today, you celebrate, yes?”
Avery smiled and waved at their closest neighbor, D’Jin, who appeared from across the street, standing on the porch of his own sentient House. Avery yelled in his direction, “Today, we celebrate!” Turning to Max, she continued, “D’Jin, don’t let Max’s mood cloud your opinion of this holiday, please.”
In response, the House did a very ‘Housey’ thing. It clapped the white cedar shingles and black shutters in rhythm, a traditional sign of affection.
Clamoring down the stairs, Uncle Bur’gon brushed past Avery and Max, exclaiming his apologies to the House. “I am so sorry, House. I wasn’t aware the door was unlocked! I haven’t slept beyond the door ceremony in a very long time,” as he unfurled the flag of the day and attached it to the Doric column to the right of the heavy oak front door painted lipstick red.
“Uncle, House sleeps late sometimes too. Thank you for the flag. It means a lot,” House said.
“Thank you, House. There have only been two owners . . .”
“Bur’gon, no one can ‘own’ House. I have reminded you of this fact many times,” House interrupted.
“Yes, apologies. My stars, that’s twice in the space of a few minutes that I have misspoken. I was about to praise your Georgian style. . .”
“And no doubt his next senseless words would be how awesome it is that you sit at the center of the court that forms a “T,” off a street lined with magnificent oak and maple trees. Yes, yes, yes, we all know of Uncle Bur’gon’s regular patter fawning over House and the stupid flag,” Max sputtered, pushing past Avery. “Are we going to College Avenue or not? I want my regular spot in front of Voight’s drugstore for the Memorial Day parade!”
“Yes, go, young children, have fun. House will be here when you return. Please say hello to my friend, College. He has been here far longer than I and many others.” In their regular spots on College Avenue, Avery, Bur’gon, and Max cheered the floats, some adorned with red, white, and blue tissue paper stuffed in the chicken wire forms pulled by trucks.
“I bet those trucks think we’re cheering for them,” Max said under his breath.
“Quiet, you young fool. Trucks are not Houses,” Bur’gon whispered into Max’s ear.
“Applaud the bands and pep squads as they march to the reviewing stand. I swear, if your foolishness gets us reassigned, I’ll strangle your little neck until you’re dead.”
Voight’s heard Bur’gon’s threat and had to agree. “I don’t think you’d like being reassigned outside the city walls, Max. The structures in the wilds have no soul, and you’d fend for yourself concerning everything. Plus, that silent sentinel, the Sun, holds minimal sway with its cousin, the Sky, which oversees what Clouds do to those in the reassigned lands. House believes you’d perish, and that would certainly, possibly, perhaps, make House sad.”
Max wilted a bit, and Avery tried to boost his spirits by changing the subject. “I’m so excited to see our award-winning Drum and Bugle Corps! There they are! And listen, they’re performing John Philip Sousa songs as they march in perfect synchronicity!”
Max missed it, though, because he was deep in thought. He was glad House couldn’t read his mind. One day, I’ll figure out how to kill all of you Houses, and then, we will be free of the tyranny you’ve brought.
As the parade finally ended, hundreds of families pushed down the parade route to walk to the centuries-old cemetery for the ceremonial laying of wreaths on the graves of soldiers who had fought.
Avery, Bur’gon, and Max pressed closer as one war hero recounted the ancient story of mankind’s past as the planet’s ruler. “Yep,” the war hero said in reply to a softly spoken question, “These war dead go all the way back to the Revolutionary War, Civil War, Spanish-American War through WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Ukraine, and then, Taiwan when the Houses came alive. Soon, we were no longer the apex sentient beings on Earth. Now, we’re more like slaves to a world that’s alive, in every sense . . .” his words died off, much like those who rested in the graves surrounding them as muted agreement swept through the crowd.
“That’s enough reminiscing about times gone by,” a neighbor said. “The dispersal horn will sound soon. Time for the family picnics.”
“Did Avery even get to lay the red geraniums at the gravesites of relatives who fought in those various theaters?” Bur’gon said to himself as he moved to the picnic site.
“We might as well be mooing; the damn Houses herd us like cattle. Go here, now, go there,” Max offered, which stunned Bur’gon, who’d been unaware that he’s spoken loud enough to be heard.
Soon, the families all sat underneath gnarled apple trees as Ber’gon cut bread into sandwich-sized pieces. “Hurry up and eat. The annual Memorial Day family photo will soon be called, and you need to be ready.”
Max chewed his food in silence, looking up at the nearest apple tree. When the leaves fall, these trees are a vision from a horror movie of old.
The photo shoot was soon complete, and the kids took off in all directions, hopping on bikes or running down the ravine to the river below to skip rocks. Avery smiled as she watched her brood. Walking back, she thought about all the beautiful events of the day. Jumping up the front steps enthusiastically, she greeted House, “Hello! We’ve had a fine day so far!”
“Good. Memorial Day is well and good. You remember how things were and celebrate how amazing they are now.”
“Yes indeed! May I come in?” she asked.
“Of course, you are always welcome,” House responded.
Once inside, Avery lingered in the entrance hall, lined with family Memorial Day picnic photos from years ago. She stopped at the spot that’d been reserved for the 2074 photo and smiled.
Reaching into her cloak, she retrieved two, long, clear bottles. “Hey, House, you might want to turn on the air conditioner. It’s about to get hot in here,” she said in even tones. Striking a small match, she lit the old rag stuffed into the top of both bottles that’d been filled with gasoline and dozens of rubber products.
With anger more likely to have been expressed by Max, she flung one bottle high and one low.
“AVERY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” House yelled. “NOOOO. . .,” it screamed as flames erupted, consuming the wallpaper and entirely dry, antique Georgian woodwork. House called out for assistance, but the skyline was aglow with red and orange as humanity started taking back what had once been theirs.
Avery used a chair to break a front window. Turning to face House, she roared, “I’ve been planning this since I was a little girl!” as she leaped to safety, rolling in the grass as flames burst out of every window and door.
“Happy Memorial Day,” she said defiantly.
