As Promised

Time to go, I tell myself. The first day of Spring brings warmth and sweetness. I promise myself this is the day to clear out the house. Raw emotions will not stop me. Pain and grief weigh down my heart. Yet, I see this as healing

As much as I see the house as part of my identity, my mother, aunt Cathy, and uncle Bob grew up here. I cannot imagine the pain of watching strangers buying your childhood home. Too many stories and memories cloud the heart. Clearing the house is coming full circle.

The house at 9522 Jefferson Lane is a part of me. It’s where I took my first breath. My mother often tells me about the deep snow that February day. Cars stalled after a few grumbles, and I refused to wait for better weather.

I remember hearing about a police officer. He survives a blizzard and gets my mother and me to the hospital. Just routine, he says. He admits he never had a pregnant woman in his car, and he is finishing up his last shift before retiring.

Five years and six months later, I feel like the tiniest creature on the planet. I hold my red plaid lunchbox in my left hand, and two brand new pencils in my right hand. I wear a freshly pressed uniform as I walk the three blocks to the school. It sits next to the church my family and I attend every Sunday and Holy Day. It’s the place to sweat to death and eat hearty fried chicken dinners, every June during the picnic.

I don’t have many friends to play with as I grew up. My grandfather tells me, “Don’t be picky. Play with them all. Better than sitting around, doing nothing, kid.”

Twelve years in the house, and I never developed such a deep love for it until it sits empty. My grandfather passed away first. My grandmother followed him nine days later. People know her for two things: being late and cooking.

The house isn’t just a place to live. It’s where I found love and learned values through actions – not words.

It is the only two-story structure on the street. The other homes are a mix of ranch-style and split-levels. I never understood my grandparents’ house one of kind style.

My family grew over the years as quickly as the house. An old wood sign with their names etched on planks originally stood by the street.  

Original plans for the house include a square shape with the usual living room, kitchen, and bedrooms. A full bathroom is upstairs with a half bath downstairs. It is red brick. The den has beige siding. Bob cut the front grass when he reached a safe age. However, he and my grandfather struck a deal on the back. Badminton games take place after dinner, yet I am lucky enough to witness the planting of and care for their beautiful garden.

I smile as I remember the story of how neighbors think my grandmother spends her days watching them from the bathroom window. No one believes she is in the kitchen until seeing it. My grandparents have a unique layout.

My grandfather and his brothers built a garage in the back. It never takes much to get a crowd there. All he had to do is raise the door and tinker away for a bit.

Of course, one of the neighbors stops by. Mr. Bazell, Mr. Hash, and Mr. Johnson all live across the street. They are frequent visitors. Mr. Reardon and the retired Marine who lives two doors down like to join in summer evening chats as well as block parties. One of them always pops back home to get a tool to help my grandfather. An impromptu block party comes together many times. It is one of the simplest community events to pull off without even trying.

The wives know where to look for their husbands close to supper. Everyone is friends, children included. The clue is an open garage door.

My grandmother hears the chatter. She brings a pitcher of tea or lemonade and sends me with extra glasses and a bucket of ice.

Within about thirty minutes, they sit around in lawn chairs, chatting away. Dinner is a combination of dishes from wives.

More neighbors arrive – with food and drinks. Someone finds a set of horseshoes buried in their garage and sets it up in the front yard. A game of darts appears out of the blue.

My family arrives at different times depending on when they finish working. The children or grandchildren of the neighbors walk down to the house and happily join in the fun.

I treasure these events for sure. These impromptu gatherings are one of many. Holiday parties, family dinners, and club meetings fill nearly every room in the house throughout the year.

Two moments stand out in my mind. Both take place during the Christmas holidays. The first happens when I am seven. I agree to take coats and winter wear to my grandparents’ room as guests arrive for a party.

Mr. Hash gives me a tip, most likely because I ask for one. He thinks it’s hilarious. My grandmother does not!

The other one is a year or two later. I colored in the living room, which is usually saved for guests. This is a treat. Its formal style and plush carpet give off a posh feel. It’s more than the matching chairs and sofa, it’s also the exquisite curio cabinet – a piece I was never allowed to touch. The entire room could be on the cover of a high living style magazine.

Two full windows face the front of the house. Plug-in candles decorate them. These are the same as what’s in other windows. It is my job to turn these on after dinner. Even with these, I have a clear view of the street.

I’m instructed to let Cathy know if snow falls with any speed or intensity. That’s the signal for my Doug and her to hurry home. The drive to Indiana is long enough without wintery weather.

My family gathers at the massive table in the den. It was added to the house five years after it was built. They play rounds of cards and their laughter was pleasant. It doesn’t happen too often with conflicting work schedules.

Well, snow falls. It isn’t a little that piles up. Bushes and yards turn as white as the street. Soon the whole area looks frosty and ready for sledding!

Being eight or nine, and satisfied with having my family together, I see no reason to interrupt the fun. I simply ignore the falling snow and continue my coloring.

It’s some time before my family takes a break. The blinds remain closed in the den. Imagine their surprise when they peer out the windows in the living room!

To this day, they don’t know what I did. What sweet and innocent child gets her family stuck together at Christmas? No one thought it was on purpose.

It’s a tight squeeze with only a few good places to sleep. There is a discussion and many headcounts.

Yet, it isn’t a big deal for me. I have a room to myself. The first one to the right upstairs. Yes, the one I was born in.

My mother took over her brother’s when he moved out earlier that year. That left my two aunts and uncles scurrying for the best spots.

Tears fall as I remember moments over the years. There is the time the fish tank collapsed, sending a wave of fish flitting in all directions. I stand on the sofa, yelling, “Save the fish! Save the fish!” The tank measures at least six feet long and four feet high.

I sit on the landing and stare up at the area around me. I grin as I recall the stairwell being painted just weeks before my First Communion. Pride rushes through me as my grandmother tells me the work beautifies the house ready for my big day. I secretly think it’s just time to do a chore no one wants to do!

So many memories and stories! Animals play a big part in the house. Tink, the gentlest German Shepard helps my mother learn how to walk by holding on to his fur. Years later, it’s my turn. He is an old dog by then and more patient than anyone can imagine.

I think of Cathy, who fears the basement at age three, learning to accept it as she grew. Thus, it is a good spot for her pet mice –until my grandparents can’t sleep from all the squeaking.

The front porch makes a nice spot to train caterpillars. My mother is quite adept at it. She makes the mistake of leaving them to find my grandmother. Fate intervenes and my Bob accidentally steps on a few as he heads out the door to play!

Every room has its own stories and memories. My grandfather turning the dining room into a television area for my grandmother while she fights off cancer is one of pure love. He knows she can’t live without her shows. At least one television was on almost all the time! Walking or standing is hard, everything is put on one level for her. This includes her antique sewing machine, and washer and dryer.

Never one to sit still, he builds the back porch after the doctor tells him he must retire, or he will die. To the day he took his last breath, he was stubborn and on the go. I miss him more than I thought possible. He always adds the word kid to his sentences.

I admit I am a fool in love for this house. I always thought it was a castle. No, it didn’t have a moat or guards at each entrance. It has, three windows spanning the top, with two on the bottom, offset for the front door.

Through the years, and changes in occupants, this house gave love and acceptance. It’s where Doug finally came to his senses. Cathy will not follow him to the Philippines where he is stationed with the Navy. He rides all day on his motorcycle to tell her he doesn’t reenlist. The only problem is it’s the middle of the night when he arrives. He taps what he thinks is her window.

He misses and hits my grandparents’ window instead! After a long chat, the relationship is saved. Cathy and Doug marry the following spring. The only reason why it’s allowed? There’s a television in the bar at the reception. My grandfather isn’t about to miss the NCAA playoffs.

It’s funny how the simplest detail catches my attention. For me, it’s the scent of casserole. A dish that almost vanished! As the story goes, my grandfather invites his brothers for dinner unexpectedly. My grandmother only has enough meat for two burgers, three at the most. She mixes it with pasta and cheese and tops it with ketchup. The dish is a hit. Not having a name for it, my grandfather and his brothers call it Crud.

My grandmother makes it a few times before she puts her foot down. She tells them to find a better name or she won’t make it again. That’s how Casserole comes to be. The scent of it, even in memory, warms my heart.

All the stories, memories, and photos give me an irreplaceable gift to cherish. Though, I’m aware that the house is now the property of strangers. The deal is done. People that will never know the seventy-year long history of the house.

It all needs to go. Stuff is everywhere. Closets and drawers jam-packed. Magnets on the fridge, some of them from over fifty or sixty years ago, and even a few handmade ones. Cabinets that always stayed full are now empty.

Furniture is gone. Dust lays in corners that never got dirty. The wood flooring, scratched over the years, feels lonely.

I hear the floors creak as I stroll from the living room to the den. It’s where I pressed my hot face to the cool floor for relief during the summer. Funny how I always thought it was a tile flooring. The name of it is Spanish Tile. That’s why I can’t find it in any flooring store. It’s linoleum!

The den is my favorite spot to trace the floor pattern through a sheet of thin paper. I perform plays for my grandparents using decorated paper sacks held up by empty soda bottles. A year before my grandparents' fiftieth anniversary, the den takes on a new meaning. My grandfather and a friend work at the church on a special project. The second-floor landing collapses! Both men are hurt, my grandfather has the worst.

A hospital bed is brought in. The table that we always use is moved. It takes months for him to heal from multiple fractures and an assortment of bruises and scrapes.

Staying in a hospital is not an option for him. He is much too active. Over the years he suffers from heart attacks. He never follows all the directions and timeline set by the doctors. Even at eighty, he stands on a roof with other guys. It is a volunteer opportunity to build homes for low-income families.

It’s no surprise that he passes away at home as he wishes. It’s just his time to go. He’s ready.

The tears feel like they will never stop as I turn and see the kitchen through the open window that once sat on the outside of the original house.

Stepping back in the kitchen, I smile as I look at the photo collection on the wall. Cousins, aunts and uncles, and even a picture of me take me back through time. I see so much in the small space. Three generations lived in the house.

As much as I treasure looking back through memories, I remember a few emotional moments. These bring up tension in my mind. Every family has them. There is no way to escape the pain. Reflecting reminds me that disagreements challenge people.

I learned my place through one in particular. It tests my positivity at Christmas. My grandparents choose to allow my Kathleen and Bob to celebrate the holiday a week ahead. I understood it’s for the best. I’m shushed when I try to offer an opinion.

I let the tears flow as I remember how a mad wave washes over me. I didn’t feel welcome or wanted. I am just there for whatever. I never can let go of that horrible feeling.

Yet, here I am. I see the rooms, feel their energy, hear the laughter, and inhale the memory of the fresh scent that fills the house. It is a mix of my grandfather’s cotton t-shirts, laundry waiting in the dryer, and wood gathered in his workshop in the basement.

Though it is sometimes the acrid smell of a home perm or the effects of recipes gone wrong overriding those more pleasant smells, it’s never onions. No, never those. My grandfather refused to allow them.

I smell them as I recall a story of how my grandmother is in labor and wanting to eat before arriving at the hospital. He pulls in the lot next to White Castle. She walks across both lots to get her burgers with extra pickles and onions.

I see photos on the shelves. One is of my mother as a child. Two others are of Cathy and Bob in high school. My grandparents on an early vacation. It all must go. I tell myself that again.

The house will be empty within a few days. The movers will come for the last of the stuff soon. The items no one claimed. These discards will all go to the church as my grandparents instructed.

The housekeeper, a dear friend of the family by now, will come one last time. She will sweep the floors and vacuum. Every corner will be dusted. Each room will be inspected one final time.

The beautiful, fuchsia paint in my grandmother’s room will disappear under a new layer of color. The mirrored doors that sat in a pair will go to a new place. The green and gold curtains in my grandfather’s room, the ones my grandmother made, will go to the church.

All of it no longer has a place in the house. Neither do I or my family. It’s now a home for someone else. Someone that I refuse to know. I have no desire to learn their names or hear ideas for fixing it up.

To me, it’s the most perfect house ever built. These strangers won’t look out the windows in the living room and know that my grandmother picked them. The shock on her face when she realized my grandfather secretly never liked them is comical. He simply gave his loving wife what she wanted.

The strangers won’t leave the cherry red paint on the front door. They will take down the lace curtain that decorates the lower half of the window between the den and the kitchen. Yeah, the one that was the window to the outside on the original house.

They won’t realize there was a side porch off the den. They won’t know that the yard originally had two trees. There are many details they won’t even think about.

The front porch is where I first practiced rolling on my skates and where I took my first photo with a Polaroid camera. I was just a kid with glasses and braces.

I knew little of the world then and don’t even get it now. Times are changing. It’s okay because I know the best secret of all. I lived in the most perfect house ever built. It wasn’t just my address. It was my home.