I took a double take as we passed by the old house on Anderson Street. An amalgam of what I remembered stood before me, overtaken by new paneling, columns and windows.
My mouth gaped open, I whispered, "Wow..."
"They've completely remodeled it," said Leya.
"Should I go talk to them?"
"Yeah, why not?"
I pulled in to the driveway and got out. Peering around the edge of the house I heard the front door creak and glanced back to see a woman approaching.
"May I help you?" she asked.
"Hi, my name is Adam. I grew up here."
"Really?!"
I slowly surveyed the perimeter of the new old house. "Wow, this looks amazing."
Glancing down toward the front door I noticed the old steps leading to the sidewalk had been replaced by a beautiful wrap around porch. The tiny footprints, once embedded in the cement, the feet of my brother and me when we were very little, were gone. I felt a lump in my throat.
"My name's Vicki. Would you like to look inside?"
"Do you mind?" (A reflexive question; I always say things like that. Like thanking the waiter for bringing the bill.)
"My kids are in the minivan."
"They can come too."
- - - - -
Tentatively, I stepped inside.
Like passing through the
wardrobe, I stepped in to another time and place. Flurries of childhood memories were suddenly projected on the space in front of me.
Where there was once plush green and white modeled shag carpet lay the houses original distressed wood flooring, redone to a high polish.
To my right stood the stairs, the same stairs my little brother and I used to climb to the top of and jump off. He was so good at that. I remember once landing on my back, gasping for air, with the wind knocked out of me.
In front of me was the kitchen where one night, helping my Mom
make popcorn the old fashioned way, I fell off my stool and landed on the oven. My Dad rushed out to the porch and grabbed a handful of aloe stems and applied them to my burned arm. He held me there while I cried.
Around the corner was the nook where the breakfast table once stood. Mom and I sat there every morning and she taught me how to read with
Hooked on Phonics and
McGuffey Readers.
To the left was the narrow hallway to Mom and Dads bedroom. My brother and I used to tip toe our way down the stairs and over toward their bedroom to ensure they were asleep before heading back to the living room to partake in our Saturday morning cartoons.
Around the corner, in the living room, stood the brick fireplace where we roasted chestnuts one winter night.
Up the stairs, to the right, in my room stood that giant window, stretching from ceiling to floor, that overlooked the back yard. On the adjacent wall was the little attic crawl space, with an entrance just big enough for a five year old. A sort of magic surrounded you as you entered that hiding place.
I remember my brother and I gazing out at night through that great window at the giant oak, now gone (probably a victim of a hurricane). It was my passage way to many dreams of flight. Countless nights I would drift to sleep only to find myself standing at the edge of that window, rising softly in the air and magically passing through the glass. I would glide ever so gently. A hush of wind would pass by as I careened down the wall of the house veering slowly up before touching the ground. And off in to the back yard, past the big oak tree, I would feel the dewy grass beneath me as I flew. Only inches above the ground I would glide into the dark.
But that was a long time ago. And now the house was being remade.
I'm glad for that house. It had been neglected for so long. Finally, it was being restored for another family and their memories. I hope theirs will be as beautiful as mine.
- - - - -
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