The main point of our trip to Columbus was to see the Mark Rothko exhibit at the Columbus Museum of Art. Almost everything I know about art I have learned from my SO. He accompanies me to yarn stores and fiber arts festivals, so traipsing around museums, absorbing works of art, is a non-sacrificial quid pro quo.
The museum is not very big and we were not interested in much besides the Rothko exhibit, so we had plenty of time to check off another item on our to-do list, the Franklin Park Conservatory.
Fortunately, my stomach had settled down enough that I could enjoy a dish of Moroccan quinoa. My SO had a cookie. I kept asking him if he wanted a taste, and he kept saying he wasn't hungry, and I kept saying, That is not the point. It was delicious!
Unfortunately, there was a lot of Dale Chihuly works nestled in amongst the plants. I know Chihuly is very popular, but frankly, if you've seen one Chihuly, you've seen them all, sort of like Thomas Kincade.
On our way to the true highlight of the trip, we had to stop at another yarn store, the Knitters Mercantile. When I visit local yarn stores on our travels, I always ask about local yarn. This one had some hand dyed alpaca that was gorgeous... and sadly out of my price range.
Finally, finally, Ms. Garmin led us to what I truly wanted to see - my childhood neighborhood. We moved away from Worthington shortly before my eighth birthday, so I could not have found my way there without her help, plus a lot has changed since then. We parked at the park where I used to play and walked the nabe.
This is the house my family lived in when I was born. Of course, I have no memory of it. My dad tells me he bought it for $12,000 and sold it for $12,000 a year later.
Then we moved into this house, which my parents built. Dad says he did the painting and finished the upstairs himself. One of my first memories is visiting this house before it was finished and being confused about the stairs that weren't yet stairs. We lived there until after my younger brother was born.
When we moved, I was allowed to ride my tricycle to the new house, accompanied by my older brothers. Dad says he had seen this house while helping my brothers deliver newspapers. He and my mom thought it was a mansion. It must have seemed like that to me, too, as my memory is of a BIG porch and a HUGE yard.
My bedroom was the one above and behind the garage. There was a door that led out onto a balcony, which must have been a flat roof over the den; on at least one occasion, we watched fireworks from there. I had tried to locate this house on Google Maps by looking for that flat roof, but could not find it. Seeing the house from the street, now I could tell my old bedroom had been extended and the balcony eliminated.
The area was more rolling than I remembered, but then it isn't called Colonial Hills for nothing. Here is the elementary school I attended.
Behind the school is a ravine. We first graders used to scare each other with stories of kids who had fallen into the ravine and cracked their heads open on boulders, spilling blood. Looking at it now, it would take some effort to hurt oneself falling over the edge.
My family was not rich by any means, but in some ways my childhood was idyllic. Instead of organized activities, we kids played outside and rode our bikes in the street and sneaked down to the railroad tracks and traveled from yard to yard by alleyways. We had a wonderful amount of freedom.
While my SO and I gazed over the ravine, we saw kids running in the woods, armed with toy shields and swords. It was good to see that some things don't change.
And then we went back to the hotel, where I took a nap while my SO went out with his camera. Not wanting to risk another episode like the night before, we ate supper at the safe P.F. Chang's. The next day, having accomplished all we set out to do, we headed home.
The end.
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