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| Memories for Sale |
Less than two square feet of wood, two colors, a minimum of words and yet it signals
the passage of time, of moving on with our lives and moving on to a new home. It
sits prominently on the front lawn, announcing that the house of my childhood,
center stage for my memories, keeper of my heritage, is now for sale.
On the bank of the bay, perched beyond the reach of rising tides, it sits today, much
like it did thirty-three years ago. We arrived on its doorstep in 1962 expecting to
make it our home. It welcomed us with much more.
We walked through its doors each morning knowing that when we returned it would
be waiting. Its doors were seldom locked, but on the rare occasion when we found
ourselves arriving home with no key, it allowed us inside with a little persuasion
from a butter knife. On days when we used the house as a pass through, it didn’t
seem to mind. We hurried through its front door, changed clothes and headed out
the back door on our way to its beach.
During the hot summers, before air conditioning, we were lucky enough to sleep on
the northern porch where the jalousie windows allowed cooling breezes to kiss our
skin. The smell of the bay and the sound of the waves lapping on the shore lulled us
into slumber and dreams of the summer days yet to come.
It was on the pier that I learned to walk softly so as not to alert the fish that we were
above them with out castnets. The piers of the neighborhood were our playground
and our springboard to life.
The house saw me metamorphosize. I was always welcomed with familiarity whether
returning from school, from a walk down the beach, from a search for my
independence or from the hospital. Even with bandaged eyes, all I had to do was
walk inside its cement walls and I knew I was home.
In the dark of the night when the phone rang bringing the news of my grandfathers
death, it comforted me while I wept my tears. When grandmother came her to heal, it
offered her that same comfort.
It ushered me through its doors on my first date, and I received my first kiss under
the soft glow of its porch light. When my future husband walked through its doors, it
seemed to know him and welcomed him too.
It was the house I ran to when my daughter died and there where I found comfort
with family and friends. Upon the birth of each of my sons, they were welcomed into
the family and into this home when they were just a few days old. And it was in this
house they learned that grandma and grandpa could always be found.
The circular driveway still snakes its way through the oaks and magnolias, but no
longer do kids travel its path on two wheeled toys. Bikes gave way to cars. Trees
gave way to teenagers with learning permits. The battle scarred bark bears witness
to our histories recorded within the wounds.
To my children this will always be Grandpa’s house. The time spent here has been
etched into their memories. This is the place they ran when things became difficult.
A place with people waiting to welcome them and their baggage for a night, a week,
or longer.
\ This home shared weddings, baby showers and celebrations. It steadfastly
bore the tragedies of family and neighborhood. It celebrated our joys and grieved
our losses. It was shelter from hurricanes, security during family arguments, and a
friend who shouldered our tears. One by one we left to begin life on our own. My
departure was over twenty years ago. I said good-bye to the place I thought would
always be a part of our family. Each holiday I heard its voice, beckoning, calling me
home one more time.
The walls have been painted now to hide the marks recording our growth. The scars
left behind have been repaired and hidden from outsiders. The kitchen has been
remodeled. Carpets replaced. Ceiling fans added. The dock re-built after each
storm, has been repaired one last time. Trees have been trimmed or removed
altogether. All done in an effort to make the house more salable. It stands today,
bright and shinning, a “For Sale” sign on its lawn announcing that it’s time to move
on.
Our combined histories, recorded on film, in books, letters and papers, sit in long
forgotten photo albums and desk drawers. Piece by piece and box by box we sort
through the memories and place a value on each. Some are regarded as useful. A
treasured few will be moved to their new home. The others are marked ‘to be sold’,
leaving the valuation to strangers who rummage through our past. We leave
nothing but our memories behind.
As the packing takes place, I am called home to recover pieces of my past. Things
forgotten in my haste to be on my own, and those lost during my life there. Even the
heirlooms from my grandparents are lovingly passed to the next generation. Each
visit is a reminder of a time that can never be reclaimed. Each departure brings with
it the belief that this will be the last time I enter the house as part of its family.
Through tear moistened eyes, I watch my friend fade in the rear view mirror and
reach for a tissue to dry my memories, realizing that the good-bye of twenty years
ago is being repeated.
A sense of loss grips me as I watch my parents move from the family home to their
new house. I mourn this last good-bye, knowing that the keeper of my past will soon
belong to someone else. Peace comes in knowing that the memories remain.
the passage of time, of moving on with our lives and moving on to a new home. It
sits prominently on the front lawn, announcing that the house of my childhood,
center stage for my memories, keeper of my heritage, is now for sale.
On the bank of the bay, perched beyond the reach of rising tides, it sits today, much
like it did thirty-three years ago. We arrived on its doorstep in 1962 expecting to
make it our home. It welcomed us with much more.
We walked through its doors each morning knowing that when we returned it would
be waiting. Its doors were seldom locked, but on the rare occasion when we found
ourselves arriving home with no key, it allowed us inside with a little persuasion
from a butter knife. On days when we used the house as a pass through, it didn’t
seem to mind. We hurried through its front door, changed clothes and headed out
the back door on our way to its beach.
During the hot summers, before air conditioning, we were lucky enough to sleep on
the northern porch where the jalousie windows allowed cooling breezes to kiss our
skin. The smell of the bay and the sound of the waves lapping on the shore lulled us
into slumber and dreams of the summer days yet to come.
It was on the pier that I learned to walk softly so as not to alert the fish that we were
above them with out castnets. The piers of the neighborhood were our playground
and our springboard to life.
The house saw me metamorphosize. I was always welcomed with familiarity whether
returning from school, from a walk down the beach, from a search for my
independence or from the hospital. Even with bandaged eyes, all I had to do was
walk inside its cement walls and I knew I was home.
In the dark of the night when the phone rang bringing the news of my grandfathers
death, it comforted me while I wept my tears. When grandmother came her to heal, it
offered her that same comfort.
It ushered me through its doors on my first date, and I received my first kiss under
the soft glow of its porch light. When my future husband walked through its doors, it
seemed to know him and welcomed him too.
It was the house I ran to when my daughter died and there where I found comfort
with family and friends. Upon the birth of each of my sons, they were welcomed into
the family and into this home when they were just a few days old. And it was in this
house they learned that grandma and grandpa could always be found.
The circular driveway still snakes its way through the oaks and magnolias, but no
longer do kids travel its path on two wheeled toys. Bikes gave way to cars. Trees
gave way to teenagers with learning permits. The battle scarred bark bears witness
to our histories recorded within the wounds.
To my children this will always be Grandpa’s house. The time spent here has been
etched into their memories. This is the place they ran when things became difficult.
A place with people waiting to welcome them and their baggage for a night, a week,
or longer.
\ This home shared weddings, baby showers and celebrations. It steadfastly
bore the tragedies of family and neighborhood. It celebrated our joys and grieved
our losses. It was shelter from hurricanes, security during family arguments, and a
friend who shouldered our tears. One by one we left to begin life on our own. My
departure was over twenty years ago. I said good-bye to the place I thought would
always be a part of our family. Each holiday I heard its voice, beckoning, calling me
home one more time.
The walls have been painted now to hide the marks recording our growth. The scars
left behind have been repaired and hidden from outsiders. The kitchen has been
remodeled. Carpets replaced. Ceiling fans added. The dock re-built after each
storm, has been repaired one last time. Trees have been trimmed or removed
altogether. All done in an effort to make the house more salable. It stands today,
bright and shinning, a “For Sale” sign on its lawn announcing that it’s time to move
on.
Our combined histories, recorded on film, in books, letters and papers, sit in long
forgotten photo albums and desk drawers. Piece by piece and box by box we sort
through the memories and place a value on each. Some are regarded as useful. A
treasured few will be moved to their new home. The others are marked ‘to be sold’,
leaving the valuation to strangers who rummage through our past. We leave
nothing but our memories behind.
As the packing takes place, I am called home to recover pieces of my past. Things
forgotten in my haste to be on my own, and those lost during my life there. Even the
heirlooms from my grandparents are lovingly passed to the next generation. Each
visit is a reminder of a time that can never be reclaimed. Each departure brings with
it the belief that this will be the last time I enter the house as part of its family.
Through tear moistened eyes, I watch my friend fade in the rear view mirror and
reach for a tissue to dry my memories, realizing that the good-bye of twenty years
ago is being repeated.
A sense of loss grips me as I watch my parents move from the family home to their
new house. I mourn this last good-bye, knowing that the keeper of my past will soon
belong to someone else. Peace comes in knowing that the memories remain.
