I have always been acutely aware of the privilege of being raised in a huge old victorian home. Now that she belongs to someone else after 56 years, I am heartbroken while also extremely grateful for getting to experience living under her sturdy roof, and the fact that my parents downsized by choice.
I do not recall the last time I slept in my childhood bedroom, or the last fire I enjoyed in the fireplace. I do not remember the last pancakes I ate on the porch, movie I watched in the studio, batch of chocolate chip cookies I’d baked in the kitchen, or meal I ate in the dining room. I think that’s probably best, because if I’d known it would be the last, I may not have enjoyed it as much as know I did.
What I do remember are countless vignettes. Playing in the bubbles at four of five years old in the first floor bathroom’s clawfoot tub, and how cold it was to get out of it. Waking up as a kid on a weekend morning and hearing my parents laughter float down the stairs from the third floor into my second floor bedroom. High school friends hanging out in the livingroom talking about high school stuff and reenacting SNL skits while eating junk food. Countless beautiful holiday meals followed by rounds of Trivial Pursuit or Taboo. Having house guests from all over the world – some exchange students, some friends, some family. Building a fort in the backyard with my cousin Susan. Watching Dad intricately carve a pumpkin for Halloween, or Mom cook countless beautiful meals regularly. Fighting with my brother Christopher over who gets the better seat in front of the TV. Sitting for hours in the sanctuary of my bedroom, painting, writing, over-thinking.
Lauren, a friend since childhood, pointed out recently that 25 Avon Street was part of our play as kids. I love this thoughtful observation. The carriage house had a back room that doubled as a club house. The tulip tree out front was a portal to a new land after your climbed up and through her double trunk. I like the idea that she (the house) was watching us and getting a kick out of that.
She was a safe place to be when nursing heartache, and an even better place to be when hosting a party.
Now empty of every last kitchen utensil, book, piece of artwork (both the fine, and the crap ones made by us as kids), every implement for crafting, building and creating, the eight bedroom queen victorian house is cleared of all the evidence of the family that called her home. I cannot bear to think what may become of her in these modern, housing crisis times.
I went recently to say goodbye, entering through the back of the house, through the kitchen. She was not lacking in personality despite her emptiness. Her layout was different than when my parents first laid eyes on her in 1970, but it was still interesting to take her in in this empty manner, which is closer to how my parents first saw her. I have only known her full to the brim.
I wandered each room, touching doorframes and taking in her cracks, thinking about how long she had stood strong, thanking her for doing so. I wish I could see all that she has seen. All the lives that passed through, appreciating her. Climbing the steps, I noticed that a stair near my old bedroom no longer creaked when I stepped on it. Someone fixed it and I hated that.
I had a good cry more than once, taking her in one last time. I thanked her again, and before I left out the back door, I apologized for whatever comes next for her. As I backed out of the driveway, I thought about how Mom used to wave from the side porch whenever I left. This was back when I didn’t live locally, and would be leaving to go back to Florida, or New York, or Ohio. She did this every. Single. Time. Big waves, a big smile. I do not remember the last time she did that either.
Unlike the last game of freeze tag played in her yard, the last birthday cake blown out, the last letter written from my bedroom desk, the last tree lighting party, or my Mom’s last wave from the side porch, I knew as I put my car in reverse that it would be the last time I would ever back out of the driveway of this beautiful place, with her cracks, creaky steps, drafty rooms, and the many many memories she gave us.
