The neighborhood I have lived in for more than thirty years consists of a combination of cape cods and small ranches. These homes were built in the 1940s and are under 2000 square feet which includes the basements that regularly get water when it rains a few days in a row. When I once told someone where I lived and raised my family he said, “It’s commendable that you were able to do that in such a small space,” which made me laugh because I never considered it all that difficult. Though Mark and I never considered moving, other families did as their need for a bigger home with bigger closets and dry basements grew. We loved our street and its proximity to everything, the huge trees that lined the sidewalks, and the ability to walk to a shopping center that included a Macy’s, a grocery store, hardware store, restaurants, and for several years a movie theater.
In the past ten years the area has become even more desirable for young families as one builder after another has bulldozed the existing homes for more modern dwellings that currently go for a million dollars. That is an eye popping number for us long-timers who paid less than 10% of that amount. While some of these homes needed to be torn down due to neglect, others have not and I have railed against these changes. I am a lover of quirky old homes and was sold on the house we bought within ten minutes of being in it. A lilac bush in the yard that reminded me of my grandma sealed the deal.
Fast forward a few decades and a tragic loss later, I met Michael and moved four blocks away into exactly one of the homes I have been so critical of for years. Never say never, right? On our street is a combination of new and old homes and one in particular I was in love with. It was one of the original ranches (two bedrooms and under 1000 square feet) that had been updated in many ways. It had a brick front porch where two rocking chairs sat and a beautiful and inviting wood door that I’m sure was custom made. It was the landscaping, though, that made it look like a charming cottage right from the pages of a story book. A stone path led to the backyard and I longed to see what it looked like. Only once did I see who lived there as they were walking in the front door. I wanted to yell, “I love your house!! It’s my favorite,” in hopes a conversation would start and I could see what they did in the back.
A month ago we got a certified letter stating that a home near us was going to be torn down and another built in its place. I immediately got on Zillow to see which one and it was the sweet cottage a few doors down that I loved. No no no not my house, I thought. The following day I went to work and was telling my coworker about it and pulled it up on my computer to show her. It turned out that she knew the owner, that he’d lived there for many years, had remarried, and was a builder. I told her how much I loved his yard, that I would love to dig up some of his plants before they got bulldozed, and she immediately texted him. She never heard back from him as I’m sure he was getting that same request from a lot of people who knew him far better than the nameless stalker down the street.
Last week we got back from a meeting Michael had in North Carolina and then to Florida for a few days to see two of my siblings. When we came home I was stunned to see the house. It had been stripped clean of the front door I loved, the windows, the garage door, and most of the plants in the front yard. It was a shell of what it used to be.
A few days later when Michael and I walked by, I convinced him to trespass with me and look at the backyard. It had a small deck, a shed, and a fountain. A bed of large, tall evergreens were in the corner and another bed bordered the fence line. Despite the upheaval it was as I imagined it – a lovely, peaceful oasis. On Saturday the excavator arrived and was parked in the front yard. Soon there will be a dumpster and what once was will be a giant hole. Someone passing by who wasn’t familiar with the before might think it was one of those rundown homes that had been neglected by a series of owners for years. But that wasn’t the case, that home was loved and nurtured and because of that I am sure that the new one will be equally beautiful and filled with many of the details that made the old one so unique.
These days the outside of my life looks like the lovely, new homes all over my neighborhood and the one I live in now. But for those of us who have grief as our steadfast companion, loss isn’t gauged only by befores and after. There is the in-between state where I was for so long doing brutal, emotional work where everything I knew for sure had been stripped away much like the house down the street. There are parts of that time that will never go away like how a phone call from an unknown number causes me to panic, how every time I tell my kids I have to tell them something I preface it with, “It’s okay, it’s not bad news,” how I have never made the assumption again that everyone I love is okay.
There is a closet downstairs in this house where I have stored my Christmas decorations. When I open it I can still smell my old house with the lilac bush and the memories of the many things it gave and took away over the years. Back then I was living a different dream and had no reason to believe it would end the way it did. But it did and here I am in this new house with this kind man – both of us daring to start something new while never forgetting how costly it was for us to rebuild.
