Thanks for the Memories
Today is a sad day, as my childhood home is being sold this morning. Things haven't been the same there since my mother passed away three years ago, and so my step-father Dave finally decided to move out and move on. Makes sense to me.
Last night I had an opportunity to spend some last moments in the happy house that hosted so many defining moments in my childhood. I had mixed feelings about going to the house, on the one hand looking forward to getting closure on my childhood, but on the other hand feeling some trepidation toward what those final moments would be like.
After parking my car in the driveway, I noticed that my step-father had left a bunch of trash piled up outside. A quick look found dust-laden dumbbells (barely used but quite old), a few discarded tools, and some small furniture items. Most of my family's possesions had been removed long ago, and these were the last hold-outs. I noticed a few framed drawings designated for the trash heap as well, one of which I think is the Chesapeak Bay Bridge which my mom was particularly fond of. I wasn't, so in the trash it stayed.
At first when I tried to open the side door, I thought it was locked. That was strange, I thought, as Dave had promised to leave it unlocked. I grabbed the handle and pushed a little harder, and the door grudgingly opened.
They say that a person's sense of smell can bring back the most vivid memories - something with the way our brains are wired - and with my first few steps the aroma of my childhood flooded me.
Winter mornings when 807 was closed (and many when it wasn't), being awoken to my mother's tell-tale morning greeting (Sweety-weety-weety, time to rise and shine), summer trips to the Shore, birthday parties, learning to ride a bike, playing baseball in the yard, playing in the leaves, my father and I playing, Grandma coming over, driving a car through (not in) the garage (long story), ice skating in the side yard, playing under my mom's bed, high school baseball games, graduations.
Love. Happiness.
Some sadness. Some pain, too. But not too much.
My memories in overdrive, I did one final walk through the place where I developed from a baby, to a toddler, to a boy, to a young man, and to a man. The kitchen where I watched my mother cook our great meals....the dining room where we gathered every Christmas Eve....the living room that was home to our Christmas tree, the sunroom.
My bedroom - Atari and baseball cards, my faithful dog Heidi and Speed Racer bedsheets. Fresh paint, new carpet, Wade Boggs scrapbook and new school clothes for September. Cable TV and my desk. A door that never shut right.
In all honesty, I did a few corny things too. A phone was still hooked up, so I dialed my cell phone number. 589-5948 appeared in the cell's display window. That'll be the last time that happens.
There was an old - very old - schoolhouse type pencil sharpener in our pantry, which Dave left. I connect the pencil sharpener with early memories of my mother, mainly because we used it all the time and mom was, after all, a schoolteacher. I decided to take it with me, but I couldn't unscrew it off the wall - it was holding on tight. So I just yanked it off.
And of course I said goodbye to my faithful companion Heidi, the loveable mutt who shared so many childhood joys and tears with me.
It was odd how empty the house was. I recalled my mother's reaction when I first moved out in my early 20's; after cleaning out my bedroom, my mom walked in to find the room barren. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Now I know how she felt.
Truth be told, things have never been the same at Crafton Avenue since i got a phone call from Dave in January of 2004. Mom had been very sick with cancer. Evidently the battle was over.
Immediately after getting the call, I charged to the house from my home in Williamstown. The roads icy and it still dark, I wondered what it would be like to be at the house with my mother gone. Her spirit still there, perhaps, but my mom gone nonetheless.
As I bade farewell to my childhood home last night I was reminded of a little note that my mom left for me when I purchased my home in 2003, shortly before her death:
"August 29, 2003. Christopher, Your first home of your own....May you find comfort, contentment, Good friends, much laughter, Health and happiness always Within these walls. Remember that the walls, floor and roof Do not constitute a home; The people living there do."
Apparently, mom was on to something. My time on Crafton was done. What had been my childhood home - and I suppose always will be my childhood home - is no longer my home. Certainly not legally, but not emotionally either. Life moves on.
With that, I walked out, closed the door, and hopped into my car. Looking up at my car's GPS navigation system, I tapped the screen to wake it up, hit the Navigation button, and watched the first choice pop up on the screen:
"Would you like to Navigate home?"
Last night I had an opportunity to spend some last moments in the happy house that hosted so many defining moments in my childhood. I had mixed feelings about going to the house, on the one hand looking forward to getting closure on my childhood, but on the other hand feeling some trepidation toward what those final moments would be like.
After parking my car in the driveway, I noticed that my step-father had left a bunch of trash piled up outside. A quick look found dust-laden dumbbells (barely used but quite old), a few discarded tools, and some small furniture items. Most of my family's possesions had been removed long ago, and these were the last hold-outs. I noticed a few framed drawings designated for the trash heap as well, one of which I think is the Chesapeak Bay Bridge which my mom was particularly fond of. I wasn't, so in the trash it stayed.
At first when I tried to open the side door, I thought it was locked. That was strange, I thought, as Dave had promised to leave it unlocked. I grabbed the handle and pushed a little harder, and the door grudgingly opened.
They say that a person's sense of smell can bring back the most vivid memories - something with the way our brains are wired - and with my first few steps the aroma of my childhood flooded me.
Winter mornings when 807 was closed (and many when it wasn't), being awoken to my mother's tell-tale morning greeting (Sweety-weety-weety, time to rise and shine), summer trips to the Shore, birthday parties, learning to ride a bike, playing baseball in the yard, playing in the leaves, my father and I playing, Grandma coming over, driving a car through (not in) the garage (long story), ice skating in the side yard, playing under my mom's bed, high school baseball games, graduations.
Love. Happiness.
Some sadness. Some pain, too. But not too much.
My memories in overdrive, I did one final walk through the place where I developed from a baby, to a toddler, to a boy, to a young man, and to a man. The kitchen where I watched my mother cook our great meals....the dining room where we gathered every Christmas Eve....the living room that was home to our Christmas tree, the sunroom.
My bedroom - Atari and baseball cards, my faithful dog Heidi and Speed Racer bedsheets. Fresh paint, new carpet, Wade Boggs scrapbook and new school clothes for September. Cable TV and my desk. A door that never shut right.
In all honesty, I did a few corny things too. A phone was still hooked up, so I dialed my cell phone number. 589-5948 appeared in the cell's display window. That'll be the last time that happens.
There was an old - very old - schoolhouse type pencil sharpener in our pantry, which Dave left. I connect the pencil sharpener with early memories of my mother, mainly because we used it all the time and mom was, after all, a schoolteacher. I decided to take it with me, but I couldn't unscrew it off the wall - it was holding on tight. So I just yanked it off.
And of course I said goodbye to my faithful companion Heidi, the loveable mutt who shared so many childhood joys and tears with me.
It was odd how empty the house was. I recalled my mother's reaction when I first moved out in my early 20's; after cleaning out my bedroom, my mom walked in to find the room barren. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Now I know how she felt.
Truth be told, things have never been the same at Crafton Avenue since i got a phone call from Dave in January of 2004. Mom had been very sick with cancer. Evidently the battle was over.
Immediately after getting the call, I charged to the house from my home in Williamstown. The roads icy and it still dark, I wondered what it would be like to be at the house with my mother gone. Her spirit still there, perhaps, but my mom gone nonetheless.
As I bade farewell to my childhood home last night I was reminded of a little note that my mom left for me when I purchased my home in 2003, shortly before her death:
"August 29, 2003. Christopher, Your first home of your own....May you find comfort, contentment, Good friends, much laughter, Health and happiness always Within these walls. Remember that the walls, floor and roof Do not constitute a home; The people living there do."
Apparently, mom was on to something. My time on Crafton was done. What had been my childhood home - and I suppose always will be my childhood home - is no longer my home. Certainly not legally, but not emotionally either. Life moves on.
With that, I walked out, closed the door, and hopped into my car. Looking up at my car's GPS navigation system, I tapped the screen to wake it up, hit the Navigation button, and watched the first choice pop up on the screen:
"Would you like to Navigate home?"
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