On Letting Go
Another milestone. Last week, I moved out of the 118 North 30th Street house that has been home since early 1980. The beautiful old 1920s Arts & Crafts house has seen all of the usual things that old homes see over the decades: parties and wakes, birthdays and anniversaries, promotions and demotions, tantrums and tea parties. Our kids and grandkids romped through the house. A couple of dogs and a couple of cats, too.
I had band practice there. Many times, in fact, thanks to the patient indulgence of our wonderful neighbors. I played catch with Dan and Van in the yard. I wrote a BUNCH of books there. Mary and I danced in the lovely wood-paneled den when no one else was around. I read books and comic books. Rachel got dressed for a prom or two in the middle bedroom.
It was safe and warm and big and sprawling. It had a few familiar creaks at night, when the old oaken floors would breathe and sigh.
The laundry room was once a library, with floor to ceiling bookshelves constructed with the able help of my dad and Jim Hudson. It was there that I learned – too late – the value of “measure twice, cut once.” The library once held thousands of books and LPs. Both boys moved their bedrooms there at different times, staying up WAY too late reading comics and listening to U2 or Type O Negative.
Mary and I dressed for our wedding there. Then, years later, dressed for Rachel’s wedding as well.
We held watching parties for the Lady Bears and elections in the big den. We celebrated Mary’s Masters and Ed.D. there, too. And, at different times, when mom and dad passed, the den was big enough to hold the family where we ate Mexican barbecued chicken from the rolling taco trucks and told stories on them long into the evening.
On a couple of occasions at night, I’ve thought I heard Naomi’s paws pad across the bedroom.
The previous owners, Lt. Gov. Ben Barnes’ parents, told us the 118 N. 30th house had a ghost. A sweet, benign little ghost, a young girl. We never saw or heard her. Once, in abject desperation, after an hour of frenzied searching and fearful of missing an important meeting or something, I asked for her help in finding my lost car keys. When turned around, the keys were sitting on the stove top behind me.
Van and I drew for hours on the dining room table.
Mary wrote her dissertation in the middle bedroom.
I wrote a couple novels and a bunch of other stuff in the breezeway.
One night, I encountered a large golden possum in the backyard. He opened his mouth, lined with sharp little teeth, and hissed at me. I jumped and let him waddle off. It was like encountering something from Jurassic Park… possums are incredibly old looking. I called a humane animal removal company the next morning.
The house note has long since been paid off.
Brad Bailey stayed with us while we wrote Madman in Waco in 60 days. He brought to the house a modest but slightly disturbed woman from Fool’s Hill at the Branch Davidian compound. She had agreed to give him some information for the book in exchange for shower. Mary – bless her heart – forgave both Brad and I. Eventually.
It was in that house that Mary had the eerily prophetic dream the night before the FBI assault on the compound.
It was in that house that I stayed upon my return from my Rotary Fellowship in England. I was in the middle of a divorce and had lost my job. A great aunt loaned me the money to keep the house. And on the nights it was just Van and me, I was comforted by being there.
I was living in the 118 North 30th house when I met Mary, who lived just a couple of doors down.
There were nights when Mary and I prayed on our knees for one – and sometimes all – of our kids.
When Mary took the job in San Antonio, we moved most of the furniture out, and I stayed there during the school year. It’s a lot noisier when you’re by yourself.
It took two years to sell. We repeatedly dropped the price.
And last week, I packed up the last box. After the Guerra Brothers came and loaded up, the cleaning lady came. And when she was done, I walked out.
I’m an old military brat. We moved every two years. A house is a house. Home is where the Air Force sends us … and all of that. But I paused at the front door on the way out.
I patted the doorframe. “You’ve been a good house, old girl,” I said aloud. I don’t know why I’ve always thought of the 118 North 30th house as a “she,” but I do. I don’t know if I was speaking to the house, the little girl ghost, or the “angel” of the house.
“You’ve been a good old house,” I said again, and left.
And she was.
… and what a pleasure it was to participate in those band practices! Very moving post, Bob. She WAS a good house. I’ll think fondly of those days every time I drive by.
Hey Professor Darden,
I finally figured out how to find your blog, but I kind of wish I didn’t because this made me sad. I see what everyone means when they say to show instead of tell, though. I think I know exactly what your house looked like and can imagine your family living in it without ever having met them.
Wow, this is incredible. It’s funny to think about how I am getting through college and have partial roots in my family’s home but nothing of my own. I look forward to having a place of my own, and I hope that I can have as many amazing memories as you have had in your home.
There were so many memories invested into that home. That is what really makes a house, a home. I really enjoyed this story, but it has also left me feeling sad. I know that my parents plan to keep our childhood home for as long as they can. They told us they hope that one of us will raise our family there one day. I am so thankful for that. This story was truly heart warming.