As for me, I think I just wanted it sold because I don't believe I can ever go home again and why should I expect to? I spent my entire adult life leaving home. I have no call or claim to Park Avenue. My initial feeling was to sell it outright. But my children, who are wiser and perhaps, kinder than me, pointed out that by keeping the house in the family, my siblings could go home again and that may something they need. Our conversation reminded me of one I had had with my own mom shortly before her childhood home was sold to be torn down. She told me that she always wanted to be able to go home. And she wouldn't be able to any longer. Her expression was filled with sorrow. I guess I don't want to be responsible for that feeling in someone else.
When my dad first told me that he had transferred the house to two of my siblings so the the house could stay in the family, I thought two things. First, its funny how he is being so delicate with his words like he is breaking bad news. I think he was expecting me to be upset or hurt. He explained how he wanted us to still gather for Christmas and cook outs. Second, I remembered the way going out to Grandma Martin's didn't feel the same after the extended family started renting her house out to the grandchildren. It was full of someone else's stuff. It wasn't bad or wrong, just different. And even now, with my nephew renting 1941, it doesn't feel like going home. I call before I come over and I knock before I come in. Our family photos are down and his Packer posters and Game of Thrones banners are up. I cannot rummage through the Christmas cards or refrigerator. I am a visitor in a house that was once my home.
My pull to Park Avenue is gone. I have let it go. I suppose it went in the Coral Sea as well. It is time for me to collect my spoils and go home. It is time for new voices to swear as they begin the transformation into making it their home. It is time for someone else to stub their toe on the corner, sleep at the register, tell themselves that the nightly creaks are just that and not the boogie man coming up the stairs.
The new voices will be familiar voices as one of the family would like to buy it and make it their own. A grand undertaking as 1941 is nearly 100 years old and though the bones are solid, needs much elbow grease, as he so eloquently stated.
I was going to take a set of door knobs from 1941. Almost all of the doors have glass knobs on them, including the front door and the inside of the attic door. When I was little they were made of diamonds. Now they are just made of memories. I had always wanted a knob, my part of my past. But as I was driving to Cedar Rapids this past Saturday, I made the decision to not take a pair. They belong to 1941, not to me. I walked around the house alone. I took my time in the work room, remembering the smell of gun oil and saw dust and model paint. I sat on the landing like I used to when my mom would have circle at our house and she would use the luncheon trays. You know those little glass plates that had the raised circle for the cup to rest in. I have those luncheon sets now in my basement just waiting for grandkids to use with chocolate milk and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I stood in my old bedroom remembering the years that I covered one wall with aluminum foil. The bedroom where I decided to become a tortured writer, the bedroom that heard too many songs from The Doors. I dug around the mostly cleaned out attic and hauled home two big boxes of old records. I did not open the old garment bags though, in fear of bats. I went through drawers searching for letters and photos that came from me. My mom saved everything and my dad saved nearly everything. I found a few letters from my years in Germany and many school photos of my gang. It was in the rummage of drawers that I found two sets of glass door knobs. I don't know where they came from because all the doors were accounted for. I took a set. I don't know if they originated from 1941, I guess that really doesn't matter. I took them just the same.
There is a lot to sort through when a parent dies. Especially the surviving parent. Not just the physical stuff, but the emotional stuff as well. Now that someone has declared the desire to own 1941, I am ready to be through the house. I am eager to get it cleaned out. It is how I process the letting go, I suppose. Whereas most of my siblings can go through the house any time they like, I have to schedule it in. I have weather and weekends to work around. I am ready to be through the house. I am ready to take my fondness of 1941, romanticize it and tuck it away in my heart. I think this is the last that I will grieve for for a very long time. This house, this home.
