So, Saturday afternoon. I was teetering precariously on the tippy-top step of my step ladder, the one that is not a step at all, digging composted leaves and helicopters out of my front gutter—looking like quite the responsible homeowner (even though this is something I have done maybe one other time in the five years we’ve lived here)—when I just happened to notice a grey sedan drive slowly past. Not even sure why I noticed it. We get plenty of drive-bys.
Maybe because of my birds-eye vantage point.
Anyway, I was about done pretending to be a responsible homeowner so I carefully (oh so carefully, why was I up there so high) crawled down and headed to the backyard with my ladder and lawn waste. Just then a grey sedan drove slowly up my alley, pointed its wheels into my driveway, pulled in, and stopped. A tall gentlemen stepped out.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Richard (Secret Last Name). I grew up in this house.”
But I had already guessed as much before he said a word.
“Yes!” I said, “I know you! I mean, I know you did!” I beamed and held out my hand, “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Richard.”
He shook my hand while thinking (I am sure), who is this crazy lady and doesn’t she know how to properly clean out a gutter and why is she acting like she knows me??
Because, Richard. I do know you. But in the least creepy and stalking yet still kind of odd but really just more nostalgic sort of way.
You see, the history of R-house is this: In 1940-something-ish, a young couple moved into a brand new R-house. They had a baby girl, and then a baby boy. Together, Mr. Dad, Mrs. Mom, Little Brother, and Big Sister experienced all the firsts and lasts that mark the path from birth to graduation. Dad died at some point. Mom continued to live here—all on her own—until she was nearly 95. And then she sold R-house to R-family.
And, of course, much, much happened in between all of that.
I knew this family’s (Secret Last Name) well. Not just from signing stacks of closing papers five years back. Not just because my neighbors tell me stories about Adeline—a.k.a. Mrs. Mom. But also because I was gifted with all kinds of (Secret Last Name) treasures when I bought R-house, many with the family’s (Secret Last Name) still on it.
I realize that Richard and his sister probably thought I was a sucker to accept what may have looked like trash to them—piles of doodads and what-nots that were scattered on the workbench, in the garage, throughout the attic, in the basement, and in the yard—in exchange for a great price on all the furniture in the house, but all those goodies have been one of my favorite things about living here.
And so, when Richard stepped out of his car and told me his first and last name, I did know him. Instantly.
As Richard and I chatted, I took him into the garage where I had just stowed this treasure away for the winter. He said, “Oh, yep. That was mine.” He pointed to the hidden spot in the rafters where I had discovered it last summer. “We stored it up there.”
I gestured to his family’s vintage camp stools, hanging on a hook, and told him the kids and I had used them this summer.
I apologized for the chipped paint on the aging screen porch and told him how much I adore—ADORE—that porch. He said, “I used to sleep out there all the time.”
“I still do!” I said.
And then, finally, I told him I had found the “Tube Case.”
“What, the green Tube Case?” he asked. “You found that?? You mean that thing was still here?!”
“Yep,” I said, “on the workbench. And I was wondering if you could tell me what the heck a tube case is.”
“Wow. Those things are antiques by now!” he said. And then I finally got my answer. Apparently Richard used to build electronics. He would collect the tubes from old televisions and radios and use them in his creations. And I have his stash.
As it turns out, I have used those tubes in my own creations as well. But I am certain that never in his wildest dreams would Richard have imagined creations like mine, which have a position of honor on the living room piano.
Maybe it’s strange, but I mean it when I say that Richard’s family has a special place in my heart. I love knowing that a boy and a girl grew up here, years before R-boy and R-girl arrived.
I appreciate picturing that I am not the first single mom to have walked out her life here.
I store my clothes in a dresser this family owned and I wonder what else these drawers have seen. I sit on the screen porch that Mr. Dad built and I silently thank him for this delicious gift. Ditto on the breakfast nook in the kitchen. I love the custom-built bar in the basement. I love the vintage wallpaper in the bathroom. I love that there are glass doorknobs on every door in the house, even the closets.
And I love knowing that another family once lived all of its both/and moments in this home, just as we are now.
There is life in this house. And life is going on.
Thank you, Richard, for sharing a piece of yours with us.
xo
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P.S. It turns out that Richard was in town this weekend to bury his mother, Adeline. She died peacefully during a nap, just three weeks shy of her 100th birthday. Rest in peace, Mrs. Mom. And, thank you.
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