A close friend of mine has a rapport with the house in which she is raising her children. She said she felt it the first time she walked in the door. The old house, with its red brick and heavy wood trim, welcomed her with a kind of sincerity that said life would be good there. For close to two decades it has been, and there’s no reason to think that will change.
Once, during the midst of remodeling chaos lasting several months, she felt a tug on her leg as she was hurrying up the stairs. She was home alone at the time. Describing it as nothing that seemed threatening, my friend later explained it felt like the old house just wanted her to take a few minutes, sit awhile, and remember things as they once were. She did, and said doing so seemed to have a calming effect on the household turmoil. Novelist and philosopher Ayn Rand was quoted as saying that a house can have integrity, just like a person. Maybe, such is the case with my friend’s dwelling. It has integrity.
I think there is an underlying truthfulness that accompanies most homes. Perhaps that is why helping our parents empty theirs and move on, is one of the most difficult tasks we face in adulthood. The clean, but worn carpeting turns our thoughts to simpler times when moms stayed home even though it might have meant going without new furnishings. Now, it’s a matter of paying the mortgage. The cameo-pink fixtures in the bathroom were left in place, because while they could have been replaced years ago, our parents kept them as reminders of the times their three toddlers, now in their 40s, piled into the tub together. The old box of silly party hats tucked away in the corner of the basement brings back to mind the New Year’s Eve party when everyone danced to the tunes of Guy Lombardo. Yes, if you listen, a house speaks volumes about those who reside within.
Of course, it’s easy to rationalize why it’s a good idea, or even necessary, to adjust living arrangements as people age, but to actually say goodbye? Not so much. After all, our parents’ house is oftentimes the same place we called home for many years. Regardless of whether we ever lived there or not, divesting ourselves from mom and dad’s house, a soft place to fall when the rest of the world’s hard surfaces became too much to bear, is not easy.
A few months ago, following my mother’s passing, my siblings and I gathered at her condominium to sort out her furnishings and other belongings. Close to 20 years before, we went through a very similar process, working alongside her as she prepared to downsize shortly after being widowed. She knew the big, old, Arts and Crafts style colonial, though charming with its leaded glass windows and never painted-over woodwork, was too much for her to manage alone. My mom, not unlike my friend’s house, had integrity.
She made and stuck with the tough decision to go toe-to-toe with the big lump in her throat, swallow hard and move forward. If she ever looked back, she didn’t speak of it. She did, however, enjoy the swimming pool at her new condo, friends she made at Senior Citizen card parties, and the sense of security she had from living in a building which included three neighboring units. She no longer worried about who would cut the grass or shovel the snow.
All the same, there are still fleeting moments I look back and miss that old house. The bright red tulips that bloomed in early May; the front steps where my best friend and I would spend hours sharing secrets; and each year a Christmas tree decorated with shiny ornaments and tinsel come to mind. No, the house never physically tugged at my leg as I went up its stairs, but to this day, memories of it can unexpectedly pull at my heartstrings. Just maybe, those are the times I need to take a few minutes, sit awhile, and remember things as they once were.
Copyright ©2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.
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