Our House

On the corner down the street from my parents’, there’s a yellow stucco house that’s not been patched or painted in my lifetime. A single-car garage sits close to the sidewalk with rotten wooden doors that sag from the weight of the rooms above it. Weeds grow from every break in the wood. No one has ever trimmed the prickly hedge around the property or pruned the tress, swept the steps, gathered dead limbs, or cleaned the gutters. The blinds in the windows are gray with age, crooked and broken, and fabric curtains are crammed around them to keep the world and the sun from getting in. But always, at night, there’s a single light on somewhere in the house. It changes so you know someone’s in there, but you hope they don’t emerge when you walk by, especially at night. That was true when I was a kid, and it’s still true now.

But when I was here a couple of weeks ago, a man about my age was mowing the grass. There isn’t much, of course, too much shade, but the strip of Earth between the sidewalk and the street has a little, and he was mowing it. I said hello as I passed. He smiled. Nice, I thought, maybe he’s the son.

Late yesterday afternoon I walked by again and what I found surprised me. In the two weeks since I’ve been here, someone (lawnmower man?) has installed a brand new, handmade, dark purple Little Free Library, that’s already full of good books for others to read. Made me wonder if the unseen inhabitants of the house are simply avid readers who don’t want to get caught up in any of the outside world’s distractions. I can understand that. I took a book (another James Patterson) and went on my way.   

Around another couple of corners, there’s a single-story house with aluminum casement windows that are never open. Their curtains block the sunshine too, and very little outside work has been done over the years. There are three classic cars of the sedan variety under now-moldy canvases, all three with four flattened tires. Those cars haven’t moved for as long as I can remember. But the last time I was here, a new white Cadillac sedan with a well-dressed gentleman behind the wheel, was pulling out of the driveway.  

I don’t know why these places and the people who live in them fascinate me, but they do. I wonder what they do inside. Would anyone know if whoever’s in there had died. Would anyone care? There’s a sadness about it all, and a vague longing to knock on the door and say hello. It made me smile to see both Lawn Mower Man and Cadillac Man. Both add life to the stories I create in my head about those houses.

My mom turned 95 yesterday. All six of her children were around. Three of us sang old songs to her in the morning, like “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” and “You Are My Sunshine,” songs we’d sung as a family on long summer car rides when we were kids. She joined in at moments, including a song in French I didn’t know that she had sung at camp when she was a teenager. She sang every word before her eyes closed again and she went inward. Without intending to, we ended with “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” which was hard to finish, but we did.   

There are moments of vitality for her, but more moments of sleep and being wherever she is now. Late last night when all was quiet, she told me she felt out of sync with the world. I told her she was, and assured her that wherever she is, it’s a special place. That seemed to calm her roaming mind.