SALTINES WITH A SIDE DISH OF SKELETOR
THE LATCHKEY LIFE OF CARRIE SCHAPKER
I am writing to you from my five-day vacation with one of my close friends, Carrie. We are in the Adirondacks and have both been working a lot while here (Carrie remoting into her job, me working on a new book) and I figured I would squeeze in a Substack missive before we chart our course for home tomorrow.
I first met Carrie two decades ago when our partners were working construction for an artist who had hired them to build his studio. The Michaels soon became the dearest of friends and when I eventually met Carrie, it was a just-add-water situation. It wasn’t long before we learned how much we had in common, down to being born on the same day, one year apart.
Carrie and I have since done our share of traveling together: taking in the apple fritters, winding hikes, and variety shows of the Great Smoky Mountains; immersing ourselves in a Lynda Barry writing workshop in Madison, Wisconsin; making multiple trips to a frozen-in-time Berkshires timeshare belonging to her parents; designing a self-directed writing retreat at Neko Case’s farm; and making several trips to the Adirondacks, one of which was to experience the full totality of the most recent eclipse together.
We have witnessed the majesties of New Jersey light-and-water fountain shows and underground fluorescent caves together. We have nurtured each other through cancer treatment, eye-wear choices, and post-op recoveries. We have taxied each other to essential medical appointments in the Big Apple. I cheered her on when she graduated from social work school. She has attended nearly every one of my art shows. There were bouquets involved. I have helped Carrie clean out her closets and pantry, and she has edited my writing. She is one of the first people I trust to read a draft of anything I am working on.
The only band I was ever in was with Carrie. It was called Secret Baby, and featured Carrie on a keyboard named Fanny, Eileen Carlin on vocals, Julie Novak on drums, and because I lack any musical talent, I was a co-lyricist along with the rest of the band. We had one song about The Love Boat which highlighted some stolen jewels found at the bottom of the boat’s pool, and another about the found remains of a murdered woman in the desert, and some other ones I just can’t remember. I did play the glockenspiel on some recordings. I wish I had those tapes so I could share them with you now.
Our families are each other’s families. Carrie’s 93-year-old father insists I call him Pa. I was once informally adopted by Carrie’s parents, who drew up official-ish papers a few years before they blew all of our minds by revealing that they had given a child up for adoption when they were a nun and a priest forty years prior. The grown daughter had now found them. Carrie’s late mother had been another mother to me. She gifted me a hand-embroidered necklace before she passed away that had been made for her by one of her closest friends whose name was, get this: Jacinta. The mid-way spot between my house and Carrie’s is an ice cream parlor named Cherries, so it only makes sense to meet there sometimes.
Carrie is currently the Director of Human Resources and Development at the Hudson Valley Seed Company, a most wondrous company started by her land-mates in Accord, NY in the early 2000s.
Carrie’s story is not included in the book Latchkey Township, so this is the only place you can read it! At the time I was seeking submissions, Carrie did not believe herself to be a latchkey kid, but after reading the stories in the book, she soon came to realize how one with us she really was.
1 LINCOLN AVENUE
by CARRIE SCHAPKER
Carpooling with the neighbor boys, Chris and Jared, I rode back and forth to school in a boat-like sedan that would be at home in any ‘70s cop show. The micro-climate inside was a mixture of pipe tobacco and cologne that accompanied their father, Mr. Farben, wherever he traveled.
I would get out of the car at their house with my large backpack and walk on uneven sidewalks until they dead-ended at our neighbor Emma’s front lawn. Her beautiful German Shepherd, Shalimar, would bark in a friendly way as I passed. I would stomp up the large brick stairs of my house that didn’t really match the front of the house, and drop my books on the floor as I entered the quiet and empty refuge. School was a socially awkward, sometimes bullying festival, so the relief upon shutting the door behind me was real. I felt the pit of my stomach release and the freedom of solitude unfurl in my chest.
First stop, the pantry. A tall, rectangular Tupperware filled with the innards of a Saltine box, four sleeves upright. Next stop, the fridge for Welch’s grape jelly and/or slices of orange American cheese. Maybe whip up a glass of Tang. Final stop, the TV room. The cable box gave three rows of channels to choose from, but most of the time I landed on He-Man and the Masters of the Universe and She-Ra: Princess of Power. I would wrap up in a crocheted blanket and fold cheese or scoop jelly to my heart’s content while He-Man and She-Ra took on the evil forces of Skeletor. Homework could wait.
Was I happy to hear the front door open with a parent arriving home? Yes and no.
What a beautiful tapestry of adventure and care.