I’m 67 years old and have lived in the same house for a total of 48 years. My parents divorced when I was 5 so my mother, brother and I moved in with my mother’s parents. The house was on Wabash Ave. and we always just called it The Wabash. I’ve always loved this house but it has been my bane as well as my respite over the years. For the full twelve years of school, it was home. We never locked a door. The milkman came and went with just a yoo-hoo as an alert. Bassham Food delivered our turkey at Thanksgiving and Fuqua’s our Christmas meat. We had huge family gatherings for Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas and other holidays. The crystal, silver and china came out. The linen tablecloths, mats and napkins were used. But the poor housekeeper always had to come work those holidays. Sigh. Many of our relatives were ‘country’ people or had been raised in the country yet we all fit together pretty well all things considered.
We didn’t own a clothes dryer, so everything was hung outdoors to dry. To this day the smell of line-dried clothing still sends me. One of my great aunts had a housekeeper who did most of our ironing. We used an old coke bottle (that had a special sprinkle top on it) to wet down the clean clothes; then put them in a bag and hauled them to and fro. On Saturdays before my grandfather died, we had lunch in the dining room listening to Porter Randall or Paul Harvey. Sunday lunch was usually roast beef with so many trimmings. And desert, there was always desert.
In the summer, trips were made to the closest farmer’s market in downtown Weatherford (Texas). Homemade ice cream flavors included fresh peach, peppermint, chocolate, coffee, and of course vanilla. We spent long Sunday afternoons at my great aunt and uncle’s farm in Azle where we built forts, ran amok through the woods and ate lots of pink and green swirl pound cake. In Springtown, we slept overnight on a screened in porch at a small family ranch. They had a clear running creek and lots of bois d’arc trees. The boy cousins used to throw the ‘apples’ like ammo. I detested that.
This house was bought sight unseen in the mid 1940s by my grandparents when they were moving here from Hobbs, New Mexico. The attic was made into a full second story and porches were added on the east and south, one of them screened in. The master bedroom was enlarged to include a sizeable alcove, think large enough for a bed. There was also a small room and bathroom added behind the garage. Ultimately the house became a four bedroom, three bath home with a separate guest quarter and two car garage. Two of the things I remain grateful for, believe it or not, was the day I could afford a garage door with an automatic opener and a sprinkler system. I still don’t take them for granted and appreciate what a marvelous convenience and, in fact luxury they are.
Mother was a brilliant and gifted woman. She could make a cold cucumber soup in summer as well as great chili and cocoa on the rare snowy day. And then there was always my mother’s drinking. Her drunken screams could make the doorbell chimes ring. She drank until she lost her senses and then passed out. She was also the one who taught me about the art of flower arrangements and opera. We all experience paradoxes in our lives but she was the most profound of mine. The drink finally killed her and she died when I was 34.
My grandmother planted everything she could get her hands on. Some of her shrubs are still alive and well. She taught expression (called theater now) and was extremely witty. She had a very sharp tongue that she never hesitated to use. She was the one who brought cough syrup to me at school, held my robe next to the wall heater before I put it on, quoted Ogden Nash to me, and helped me when I was throwing up. She had long black hair that she wore in a bun. I still have some of her expression books and wonder what in the world I will ever do with them. When senility set in, she would go out and look for the newspapers over and over, long after reading them. Each time she came back inside she brought something from the yard – usually a sycamore leaf – sometimes with the ball. By the end of each day there would be sycamore leaves all over the house, places like the mantle, piano and dining table. When she finally had to go to a nursing home, they were forced to tie her to her bed or else they’d find her wandering down the streets looking for leaves. She died when I was 25.
My grandfather was a retired oilman. He played lots of golf and many a gin rummy game. On winning days, he loved to take us out to eat at The Polynesian Room, Mac’s House, El Chico, and the like. He returned from golf one day and saw that my grandmother had flowers and debris all over the back porch. He looked at her and said, “That’s it, no more of this garden club stuff.” She never said a word. Later that evening over cocktails my grandmother finally replied with, “You know? It sure is going to be dull around here without me going to garden club and you not golfing.” It was never mentioned again. Not once. He died when I was 9. My brother, the housekeeper and I rode on the jump seats in the back of the limo. The house was crammed with flowers and cards as he had many friends and even more business associates. I remember nothing about the service and cannot begin to imagine how many people came to see us and attend that funeral.
My brother was the guy every girl wanted to date. He was a hunk! We were always thick as thieves and remained devoted to each other. He could play guitar like nobody’s business and I’m not exactly sure how many universities he attended but I know he never graduated from any of them. Even so, he was accomplished and kind and quite the little troublemaker. Soccer was his sport of choice and he was terrific. He was always my one true constant in life, and we relied on each other mightily for love and comfort and sometimes just a shoulder to cry on. We talked about life and had it all pretty much worked out before the next pitfall appeared. That was when we picked each other up, dusted each other off; hugged and kissed and began again. He died when I had barely turned 67.
As for me, my wish was to be a great stage actress. In my teens I worked the Summer Casa Manana Musicals moving sets and then had various jobs during the Winter Playhouse seasons. I was a dreamer and lover of nature. By the time I was 17, I was pregnant and then married and moved out of this home to begin a new life. Little did I know that it would be a scant 14 years before I returned to this house forever.
Over the years (and deaths) the amount of belongings left behind has been staggering. What do you do with your ballet tutus? Your grandmother’s Christmas cards from the 1940’s? Clothing? ALL the clothing? Letters – countless letters carefully preserved. Love letters during WWII, exchanges from the pastor in China? Keepsakes like tea cups and figurines, the silver, the china; the linen placemats that no one will use because they must be starched and ironed. What do you do with that?
There are other things - intangible things. The tirades of drunkenness and the arguments – the dysfunction. Yet there was also great beauty in the odd poem or song or trip to the woods. The flower arrangements and music. So I guess my mother was not the only great paradox, this house is too. Not one person has EVER entered this house without complimenting it. It just feels like home.
My son also lived here, briefly. He was coming into his own when cancer struck. My in-laws convinced him that God would save him – without treatment. I fought with all my might but I was only one against many. He died when he was 22, I was 41.
My father was the only one who never ‘left’ anything here. He was the kindest, happiest and funniest man I have ever known. Well, maybe except for my brother. Anything I have of his will be kept. He died when I was 43.
Of all the belongings that have been left behind, many have been discarded or scaled down, others given away. It has been incredibly difficult to decide although the items I’ve kept are meaningful and give me great pleasure. What remains is a house with immense feelings and great comfort. Soon I will scatter my brother’s ashes all around the outside of this house – mostly the places where he meditated. And someday this house will be sold and if it’s not razed, there will remain a mix of people and memories that no one can erase. They will be good memories. The only kind worth keeping.
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