We live in an old house. It’s old, big and empty. Empty but not empty because it is packed with 25 years of laughter, tears and exuberant conversation.
There is nothing fancy about this house. Fancy is the country club. Fancy is Seven Oaks. Fancy is black marble, vaulted ceilings and front doors so large giants don’t have to duck.
“Nothing fancy” was built 120 years ago. “Nothing fancy” has withstood the sun, rain, wind and earthquakes. “Nothing fancy” reveals its character rather than shows its age but people like me with houses like this, say things like that.
These houses are work, but show me one that isn’t. Houses are like ships on dry land. Stop working on them and they’ll either sink or fall down.
Sue likes the house but pay attention to the obits because the day after I go, this house will be on the market in a Herb-died-yesterday minute.
She likes the house but she’d like it better if it moved itself to a hill in Cambria overlooking the ocean or to the south of France. However, she’s raised four kids here, welcomed a million people here and as long as the air conditioning keeps working, she’s comfortable here.
The fact is, she’s more mature than I am. I get overly attached to things. She doesn’t. She is likely to see things as they are and I tend to live in a world where nothing changes, though probably everything has.
You could make a case for too-big-for-right-now. Five bedrooms, three offices, a living room, dining room, family room. It’s a lot of house when you’re not a lot of people.
If I had any sense, which I don’t, we’d do what a lot of people do at this stage — downsize — but that sounds too much like retirement.
I like walking in and out of rooms, sitting on the beds and staring at the walls.
I like empty. Empty is good for thinking. Empty is good for dreaming. Empty is good for remembering.
Start with the old living room, where we used to have the serious talks. If you were a kid and got called in, there was no place to run or hide and no chance of burrowing under the green sofa. You were stuck and you were guilty.
Katie’s room, the original master bedroom, is peaceful, perfectly proportioned and lit through the big picture windows facing south and the transom facing west.
Herbie’s room was the smallest, but facing north, the coolest. Sam’s, painted black during his teenage years, was edgy like its inhabitant. Thomas’ was center-cut and never out of balance.
There are telephone rooms, foyers, sleeping porches that have become something else. It’s like one of those houses in children's books on top of a hill. Mysterious, slightly dilapidated and always capable of surprise.
Why would I want to leave now? Good is getting better. You wouldn’t throw a pair of boots out that had grown comfortable with wear. A sweatshirt that was turning soft.
People live here even if they don’t. The kids, former owner and friend Ron May, the guests who boarded here when it was a boardinghouse in the ’50s and ’60s. Their footprints are lighter than dust and visible to the mind’s eye.
There is a song by Acoustic Eidolon called “75 North Second Street.” It’s about old houses and the people who like them. People who would as soon be buried under the floorboards next to all the other people who felt the same way.
“Plaster cracks like wrinkles tell my stories over time.”
Those aren’t wrinkles, those are beauty marks. There are plenty. There will be plenty more.
August 30, 2020 at 02:15PM
https://ift.tt/3jsAG2W
HERB BENHAM: Plenty of room, memories in this old house - The Bakersfield Californian
https://ift.tt/3eCf9lu
Herb
No comments:
Post a Comment