Saying Goodbye to the Homestead

My sister, Tracy, and I closed the sale of my mother's house today.  The house we grew up in after my mom bought it in 1972, 49 years ago.  Our homestead, so to speak.  

1422 Brenthaven Drive, although when we first moved in it was 173 Brenthaven Drive.  I'm not sure why the street address changed at some point.    

I said my final goodbye to the house yesterday afternoon, after J.P., Wes, and I loaded a desk and pie safe on a U-Haul truck I had rented.  I walked through the house and stood for a few seconds, silently, in each room.  J.P. did the same thing.

As I think about it, I've said a lot of goodbyes to the house the last few years.  

The first time was when we moved my mom into assisted living at Maristone.  We moved some of her furniture out then, so her two room apartment at Maristone would feel more like home.  That was jarring, of course, being in the house with random pieces of furniture missing.  It was like looking in the mirror and noticing that you're missing a tooth here and there.

When my mom died, I said goodbye to the house again.  There was a sense of finality, at that point, because the house no longer belonged to my mom.  It was a thing that was part of her estate, something to be divided between Tracy, Alice, and me.  It was ours even though we didn't really want it because of what it symbolized, I guess.  A life lived.  A life ended.  Sadness, loss, and loneliness.  Emptiness.  Grief.

When we had the estate sale, that was a different kind of goodbye.  Even after we had removed from the house what we wanted to keep, it hurt to think of strangers walking through the house and rummaging through my mom's things, buying bits and pieces of her life for 10 cents on the dollar.  Then, we had whatever was left - mostly boxes of junk in the attic - hauled off for disposal.  

An empty house.  That's all that was left.

Finally, we sold the house.  As of yesterday, it doesn't belong to us and I can't stop by there if and when I want to, and walk around the yard, lost in the memories of my childhood.  I can't walk through the house and listen for the faintest echoes of my mom's voice, of her laughter.  I can't go there to feel her presence or to remember her as I want to remember her.

Instead, what is left are snapshots of moments in time.  Memories that, I fear, will fade, if I can't restore them by visiting the physical location - the house - where the memories were made.   

My mom sitting in her chair, watching a game on television.

My mom sitting in the playroom at Christmas, smiling contentedly and a little bemusedly, amidst the chaos of children and grandchildren opening presents and throwing balls of wrapping paper at each other, and at her.

My mom sitting at the kitchen table with a 10-year old me, late, watching me eat a sandwich and talking with me about the baseball game I just played at Brentwood Civitan Park.  

My mom, at night, on the telephone with her sister and best friend, Sue Clark, stretching the cord as she looked down the hallway to see if I was in bed.  

My mom sitting at the kitchen table late in the afternoon, talking to Warren Gilley, who had walked over for a cup of coffee.  Mr. Gilley and I teasing my mom and her laughing the entire time.

My mom in the backyard, trying to throw the baseball with me.  Or in the driveway, shooting basketball with me.  I was 7 or 8 and she was every bit of 5'8", a giant to me, as she tried to be mom and dad to a young boy who wanted to play each and every sport.

My mom sitting in her chair, reading the newspaper or Sports Illustrated, me on the couch, doing the same thing.  

My mom entertaining, something she loved to do more than anything.  Holidays, her neighborhood summer shrimp party, the chili dinner for her Coach Stockdale and her teammates from her days playing basketball for the UT Women's School of Nursing, and on and on.  

My mom, outside, walking Shakey, or Toby, or Gypsy.  Later, my mom in the driveway, feeding dog treats to Walter and Elizabeth's barking dogs next door.  

My mom and me, as a 7 or 8-year old, putting in our mailbox out front, cement and all.  Her refusing help from Warren Gilley because she wanted - needed - to do it herself.  Her independence.  

And so many more memories of her, and of us.

As Tracy mentioned a couple of weeks ago, it will be nice for their to be life in the house again.  It's been empty too long.  It needs to be filled again with laughter, love, and yes, occasional tears.  It needs to be filled with life.

And it will be.