There are places I'll remember, all my life, though some have changed.
My husband and I both grew up in a rural area just south of Chicago. I was from "town", but he and his family lived on a small farm on a country road. His parents chose the land, built the home with their own hands and brought their two young sons to grow up in the country. An idyllic life for a couple from Chicago with two growing sons.
The land is a gently rolling five acre piece of property now dotted with mature trees and bushes. A natural waterway, lined with willows, skirts along one side. There are fruit trees and a curving line of pines that once provided a windbreak to an above ground pool that was installed by the boys. The pool is long gone, but the indent in the ground is now a small pond surrounded by rushes and water grasses. Occasionally a duck finds a home there. There is a pole building that houses an assortment of things, all of which are a tribute to the busy home and farm this once was.
I never visited the home when my husband was younger, although we've known each other since we were grade school children. We married when we were in our forties and by then his father had passed and his mother is living alone on the farm with her dog and two cats. The house is a three bedroom raised ranch with a full basement. The first time I visit the home, I notice that a lifetime of possessions fill the spaces. My mother-in-law is an accomplished seamstress and has worked for years with knitting. Her home is a happy jumble of craft and sewing supplies. A grand piano graces the living room having provided years of music from her fingers. A tote of toys lives under the piano waiting for visiting children. Shelves on the walls are lined with books and photos of family and her sons. Her chair in front of the picture window is surrounded by yarn, books, mail and an assortment of craft catalogues. Her kitchen and pantry are a collection of her favorite things with some relics of her husband's passion for cooking evident in the cookbooks displayed on a shelf. She keeps a few garden plants on her deck along with a few flowers. She is alone for long periods of time. She seldom leaves the property. Yet, she seems content with her life here on this isolated country road.
Things begin to happen like small strokes, falls and robberies during which family valuables are lost. Her dog and companion passes away. The family has a LifeAlert system installed and neighbors become more vigilant. Winters seem harder and colder. It seems more difficult to get off the farm. She begins to talk about wanting to be closer to family in a warmer area. We find a home in an over 55 community that is brand new. It's safe, there are neighbors to meet, she can bring her cat (which is now all she has left of her pets), and it's only eleven minutes from our house. The climate where we live is decidedly more mild. She decides it's time to make the change and hires people to help her go through her things and pack. The moving truck will come this week and we arrange to bring her down early so that she can be here, instead of there, when the truck is loaded with boxes full of her things.
When we went to pick her up this past weekend, I wasn't prepared. The jumbled happy house is now filled with stacked, generic, brown boxes. The boxes cover the floors, they are on the dining room table, they are around the piano. The cupboards of dishes are now empty, books packed away, pictures no longer where they used to sit. I have only been a part of this family for two years and I am shaken. I stand amidst the boxes and am not even sure where I am.
I then begin to understand the monumental change this is for her and not only for her, but for her sons. This is not just a pretty piece of countryside and a house and a pole building. This is True North for them. No matter where any of them traveled, it's where they always returned. They knew it was always there, waiting...unchanging. Whether they were traveling the world on business or touring with a rock band, it was their touch point. It's where they laughed, cried, dreamed and fought. It's where the boys grew to be men. Music was written literally and figuratively. It's where weddings were held and a granddaughter was celebrated. The family came together for holidays and birthdays. Plans were made, carried out and made into memories. A ramp was built onto the house so that a dying father could spend his last days at home and take his last breath with his family around him. Always, was the permanence of place. That slowly fading house and pole building on the gravel road meant home for more than just family, but for friends of the boys and anyone who knew the family and needed a place to spend time.
Tomorrow morning at seven a.m. a moving truck will slowly make it's way up the long gravel drive and while my husband supervises, the same ramp that allowed his dying father to come home, will now take blank brown boxes from his childhood home. I ache to be with him, but at the same time know somehow that he needs to say his goodbyes alone. As we left on Friday with my mother-in-law, I expected her to be tearful, however I suspect that she had said her goodbyes alone as well. With my husband outside loading the car and me bringing up the rear, I watched her pause before she descended the stairs to the backdoor. She looked around at her kitchen where so much of her life had happened. It was just for a moment and I looked away because I felt as though I was stealing that moment from her. I saw no tears, and there was no hesitation as she left the house that day. I never saw her look back. There's a time for everything, and it's time.
No comments:
Post a Comment