When you lock the front door for the final time or turn your back and walk down the driveway, a sense of loss persists when you close a house.
Maybe you’ve sold off your first home or closed your parents’ estate. If the walls could talk, they’d recall stories of children’s birthday parties, festive holiday affairs or somber gatherings after a funeral. Pick any category – we’ve all done one.
My friend since childhood, Cathy Moore Bell of Morristown, is going through it this week. The retired public health nurse and her husband John are putting their riverside home up for sale, choosing to spend more time in Florida and downsizing from their three-bedroom home that overlooks the St. Lawrence River between Jacques Cartier State Park and Old Man Island.
“The most important part is the wonderful friends we have in our small piece of River Road East,’’ Bell said. “Funny thing is my family lived just down the road, within sight of our house, in a small camp from 1966-67. Seven kids and 2 parents.’’
“Both Colleen (her sister} and I have great memories of that time there. You just can’t beat the sunsets on the river, the sailboats that come out of Brockville every Thursday (maybe Tuesday too), the ships that navigate through the channel, and now the small cruise ships that pass by.’’
Any river dweller can wax poetically about golden sunsets, mornings where the water resembles a piece of glass, or gentle evening breezes punctuated only by a bird call or the splash of a leaping fish.
My childhood riverside abode, near Wright’s Marina in Morristown, afforded a wonderful view of Morristown Bay where it meets the St. Lawrence, with Brockville in the distance. Each night, the lights of Brockville put on a sparkling show.
After my mother Eileen’s passing in 1998, the house closed for several months but the memories of Christmases, retirement parties and summer gatherings on the deck never faded.
My wife went through a similar situation last week when she walked down the driveway of her family home in Doylestown, Ohio, for the final time. It’s a walk she has made for 20 years but now her parents have moved to a senior living community. By the time this is published, a new family will begin building memories in the home.
“That wasn’t the home I was raised in, but it was the place I came to as an adult,’’ Mary said. She tried to downplay it, but the memories held a grip.
She recalled our grandchildren running from room to room so they could ring a bell on a lamp. There were holiday parties where the nieces, nephews and their plus-ones played raucous 7-11 dice games for prizes in the basement. Videos were shared. Engagements and baby announcements were revealed. There were talent shows, card games, dominoes and no shortage of laughter.
“It was always good times’’ Mary admitted. “Everyone tried to get there for every party, every holiday.’’
She created a family jewel in the basement. Each year at Christmas, she lined up the 12 grandchildren in the basement and marked their height on the cinder block wall. Each name, each year, each measurement were carefully recorded.
“That wall was something for everyone,’’ she said. “We had started the same thing at my parents’ previous home. The kids could see how they’ve grown. They all cherished that.’’
Before Mary made that last walk down the driveway, she hung plastic sheets over the “cousins’’ wall and traced a record for her two brothers and sister. Each family has the option to continue the tradition. The wall even included the next generation – our two grandchildren and a grandnephew.
“You translate what is in your mind to your heart,’’ Mary said. “Those memories are always going to reside there.’’
She also carries a trove of memories from her childhood home just outside the village. It was the site of apple wars, sleepovers on the lawn, annoying bats with flashlights, and rolling down a hill inside a large industrial tire.
I can’t pass the house without marveling at Eileen’s tree. A storm had split the signature tree on Mary’s parents’ front lawn just before our wedding in 1984. The family carted the remains away, but my mother devised a plan to say thank you for hosting. She had a maple sapling planted on the site. Today’s it is a 40-foot high beauty.
The tree resembles a happy memory. It simply grew and grew and branched out.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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