“Our house is a very, very fine house with
two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard,
Now everything is easy cause of you…”
- Graham Nash lyricist: Our House
It was as simple abandoned white clapboard two-story house –
the photo taken from a low angle on a bleak day emphasizing overgrown weeds and
unkempt appearance.
The shot looked to be some 50 to 100 feet away, making this
abandoned house appear even more empty…bereft…lonely…cold…unwelcoming.
I never actually saw the house near Nemacolin, Pennsylvania
on route 40 some six miles north, as the crow flies, of the West Virginia
border. My friend Ann posted it on social media, and the image was enough to trigger a ‘video’ from
the archives of my mind.
Columbia, Missouri 1974…
I had ridden a few times, but really did not have a lot of
experience with horses - Peg did. She
was a recent divorcé and I was a student at the beginning of graduate work in
Missouri. A mutual friend had set up a
horse riding date with her. It turns out
the horses were hers and she loved to ride.
That afternoon, we saddled up and rode through unmarked
countryside north of Columbia. There
were no roads as we trotted through the overgrown fields. I was pleased to be above the brush, certain had
we been walking my ankles would have had scratches looking like an experiment
in abstract art.
Somewhere during the ride, in the broad landscape of
switchgrass and fescue, stood a two story brownish colored, abandoned and weathered
farmhouse standing alone like a long forgotten monument to ‘life adventures’
past - nothing else in sight.
As we rode closer, you could see through the windows into
the three rooms in the downstairs. Standing in the stirrups I could see they
were bone empty.
The overhang of the covered porch was held up by four tired
looking posts, their grey color matched by the weathered flooring they covered
– grey…worn… uninviting. This place had
been sitting for a very long time, and I wondered what stories the walls of that
old homestead might have whispered…
Stopping for a few minutes, gaze fixed on that old place, my
mind drifted to an imaginary time and imaginary place.
Imagination creates…
I saw a young man and woman beginning their lives
together.
Bill and Susan had taken a liking to each other in junior
high school, and it continued through high school and university. They married
in their 22nd year and looked forward to life together…the sky was
blue!
It was the late ‘60s and Columbia had been the county seat since
its incorporation in 1821. It was a
university town even then, as in 1839, 900 folks pledged nearly $120,00.00 to
create the first public university on the western side of the Mississippi
River.
By now, the civil war was over and Bill’s father built a
small mercantile business in which he worked.
As was often the case in those days, Bill and Susan lived in the family
home in the city. There was room for
them all, but they wanted to strike out on their own.
This, of course, was the reason Bill and Susan were looking
for a place to call their home.
Somehow they had scraped up enough money to buy a patch of
land north of the city. I imagined them
sitting around a table somewhere quietly chatting, sparkling with eagerness,
about finally having a home of their own.
Then came the day. “I got the loan today Susan!” he said,
his heart racing with excitement.
“I’m taking a chance here,” Mr. Jenkins the banker had
said. “But you are a hard worker Bill
and your family have been solid citizens here in Columbia.”
Bill negotiated with Samuel Johnson the landowner and the
deal was done!
Later they built this two-story house…insulated the walls
and painted it a bright white! It wasn’t
a palace, but it was theirs, and on weekends they would walk the land talking
about their future.
The house was pretty big for just the two of them, but they
had plans and in the third and fourth years in the life of that house…no that
would be wrong…their home, she delivered children, Bill junior, followed the
next year by Elizabeth – Betsy to her friends, but that would come later.
In the 10th year of their marriage the front
porch came and Susan painted the flooring a rustic brown, making those four posts
multicolored with white, green and light redish bands. Against the background of the house, they
could be seen from quite a distance by folk who came to visit. Susan had a
quiet flare.
She loved that porch and on quiet afternoons, when Bill was
at work and the children in school, she would sit in the rocker Bill surprised
her with on her 34th birthday, and let her mind drift to her
children, husband and gratitude for this place ‘they’ built, loved and lived
in.
Bill died in his 67th year of an unexpected heart
attack. The children, now grown and
living in Columbia tried unsuccessfully to get Susan to move to town with them.
She had steadfastly resisted…this was her home…this is what
she knew…this is where everything meaningful in her life had happened.
“No, dears,” she said, “I belong here…I will be fine.”
She wasn’t fine, of course.
Even though she was in her home where it all had happened, it was by now
empty and she was alone. In truth, she
felt empty too.
They found her sitting in her rocking chair on the front
porch, grey hair fluttering in the breeze, her head bowed, lifeless eyes closed
as if she were in prayer – she was, you know.
It was a warm Sunday morning in June a year to the day that
Bill had died…they had come to take her to church. No one would know how long that year had been
for her, but now they were together again…
The homestead? Well,
the kids had families of their own, yet that sturdy old house wasn’t going
anywhere and though it could have been given better attention, it stood its
ground to the autumn day Peg and I rode by.
Horses, houses and
fields…
“That place must be over a 100 years old,” Peg said breaking
my daydream and bringing me back to the present starkness of this open and
scrub filled landscape upon which the old house had been built, full of love
and sorrow – the kind that comes to all of us…the kind that gives our existence
texture and richness.
It was time to go, so we headed back to her place, wiped the
horses down, put them in the barn. I
thanked Peg for the day and headed home.
Later that night as I sat in my little efficiency apartment,
I thought about Bill and Susan. They
were, nothing more than figments of my imagination, but they had ‘come’ to my
mind…drifted through as though we were friends with a history.
When I saw that house sitting on the prairie, I experienced
my own desire for stability…my own yearning for a place I could call home…my
own need for solid ground under my feet…something reliable – something constant.
Over the years, I have come to appreciate ‘places’ DO
NOT…CAN NOT…provide a sense of comfort. It
is never about the place, – it wasn’t for my Bill and Susan – rather it was the
love…the care…the human connections between…
That picture posted by my friend, reminded me how easy it is
to let our houses (minds) sit quietly while the paint fades and the life that once
was slowly drifts away. It takes work,
commitment and a little fresh paint now and then to make our house a home and
inviting…
Coffee on the porch anyone?
I have an extra rocker…
- ted
Be there in a sec, Ted! Lizzie
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