My parents, for various reasons, never stayed put very long. We moved quite a bit, whether for jobs or for a greener pasture on the other side of the apartment complex. My mother, in particular, has been notorious for regular uprooting, to the point that it has become a common joke between us: Mom, it's been a whole year, guess I should expect to help you move soon.
And I'm a geography guy, obsessed with spacial awareness. Love my maps. Love getting directions. Love checking out the lay of the land in new neighborhoods. Love thinking about and describing how landmarks and streets and buildings are configured.
So when I think of my childhood, I often think about the only space that has been a constant, my
grandparents' house in Windsor, Mass. They've had that house for 30 years, about as long as they've had a grandson. My itinerant youth found stability in the house on the hill and the cool cellar where grandpa had his tool bench and the evergreen forest shooting up on the back of the seven acres and the frog pond and the old barn where the ride-on lawn mower was stored and the dining room where we always hit our heads on the hanging light and the sweets grandma would bake in that kitchen oven and the time I almost impaled my uncle with the yard darts and the giant boulder mysteriously planted in the flower garden and grandpa's famous vegetable garden and compost pile and trying to get the rooftop antenna turned in the right direction to watch the weather on the TV in the den and the steep stairs that twisted up to the second floor bedrooms with their cozy views of winter snow and summer sunsets and occasional cars on North Street beyond the old stone wall.
Ah, for a guy who tries not to get too nostalgic about too many things, that house gives me fits of daydreaming.
Liz and I have considered every scenario that would have allowed us to keep the property in the family, knowing that grandma and grandpa eventually would have to move down the hill to a more manageable life in the Pittsfield area. But it just wasn't to be. At noon Monday, the house was sold to a new family, who surely will develop as many memories there as we have.
To say a final goodbye, Liz, Sam and I stopped by Sunday on our way to introducing the Monicos to their great-grandson. Our real goodbye to the house occurred in May,
the last time we were there when it was still a living space. At that time, my uncle Jeff and aunt Laurie were visiting, too, and Sam was still growing in mommy's tummy. But on Sunday, the house was cleared out and locked up, and weeds already had begun to grow over the steps up to the back door. We walked around the exterior, took a few pictures and then headed back down the hill.
This is a lesson Sam will have to learn someday. All good things come to an end. That's just the way of the world, its melancholy accent. But the world is wide. And for every door that closes on a good experience, so many more doors are ready to be opened on new experiences, the raw ingredients for future memories. The ache of time is strong, but in this way, no good thing ever really is lost.
My parents also dropped by for a short visit. They hauled some stuff back to Wisconsin for us, including our canoe. It was a good excuse to come see Sam.
My co-worker Leeanne, who is getting married Saturday, also was there. It was great to see everyone and to trade baby stories with Jim and Chris. Photos: Sam Meets Reid
