MEMORIES
On a warm, quiet Sunday afternoon in August, a black Chevrolet Impala drove slowly down a gravel road. The car pulled up to an old farmhouse and stopped, its engine still purring. Then the driver turned off the ignition, leaving the deserted old farm to the memories that might be haunting the old house.
The passenger, a pretty woman, held the man’s hand. The three children in the back seat sat patiently and waited to see what their dad might do. As the driver’s door clicked open, he told them he would just be a minute. Reluctantly he got out of the car, closed the door and walked down the nearly overgrown stone path into the gardens. He stood and looked about and saw lilies, butterfly bushes, a variety of colorful flowers, and several large rose bushes, now overgrown by weeds. As he touched the wooden gate to open it, it fell apart in his hand. The pieces fell to the ground and he picked them up and neatly stacked them into a pile out of respect. Then walking to the front door, he knocked. “Why did I knock?” he thought to himself, “How silly to knock. This house has been abandoned for several years!” He stood there staring at the house and porch. The woman who was slender with blond hair, got out of the car and walked to his side, putting her arm around him. The children also walked up and feeling uncomfortable, each grabbed a parent’s hand.
“Watch your step kids,” he said. “The floors might be weak from rotting.” The front door squeaked open as he pushed gently inward. He realized the roof had been leaking for some time, as there was standing water in puddles on the floor. The floors had begun to rot and the house smelled musty. On two of the walls were pictures of his uncles and other family. In one photo, some family members were standing next to a horse and buggy, while in another someone stood next to a Model A Ford. One old photograph showed a good-looking young woman holding a blue ribbon and a pie.
The man walked over and stood in the doorway. His eyes traveled from side to side, glancing at the grand oak hutch that once held plates for special company and brought back fond memories. In the corner lay stones that had fallen off the fireplace chimney and next to the fireplace sat an old rocking chair. It had not caught the brunt of the decomposing house, and appeared to be solid. “Was this your house?” asked the younger of the children.
“Yes sweetie,” he replied in a soft voice. “Yes, this is where I spent the first eighteen years of my life.”
He walked slowly toward the kitchen, with his wife and kids behind him like little sheep, following their shepherd. The man looked at the old cupboards that still contained a few cups and saucers, which had been left behind by the owners. One was his mom’s cup he recalled he recognized a red rose on the cup and saucer. He walked over to the cherry wood secretary on the south wall, closed the door and latched the gold lock onto its perch. Then as he walked out the back door onto the porch, his foot nearly gave way to the rotted wood below him. “Watch your step,” he said to the kids. They obliged and stepped carefully onto the porch and steps that led down to the walkway.
Behind the house, the old barn roof had begun to cave in, and he knew it would be dangerous to go inside. It was not so much the dry-rotted roof that made him nervous, but the bad memories. His eyes teared up as he told his daughter about the beatings that his grandfather had given his father in the old barn when he was a small boy. The man explained that his own father also punished him in the same fashion. Standing mute, he stared at the barn so long that the kids became restless. “I’ll take them back to the car honey,” said the woman. “No, no, it’s ok now,” the man replied.
The man walked slowly to the back yard, stopped and began to search. His feet shoved small branches away and he stooped down and began to brush the ground with his hands. Under his fingers, he felt the solid object that he knew was there. He knelt down on his knees and began to remove the debris. When it was cleared away from the grave marker, he dropped to his knees and began to cry. It was not so much the marker that brought the tears, but the memories it brought back.
The gravestone had survived the weather and time well. Oddly enough, it had fared much better than the house, the barn, and a part of his own life. He picked away the debris until the gravestone was clean. A four-leaf clover was drawn on the concrete marker. His wife and kids drew near as his little girl squinted to read the inscription that was written on the marker.
He opened my eyes to the beauty of life.