When I have moved
out of a house I have usually gone from room to room, remembering
what happened in each before going out the door the last time. We
just left our home of nineteen years on Summit View. But the ending
was too chaotic for a trip down memory lane. So I thought I would
write about my memories. If you're interested, keep reading.
A friend our
daughter brought home once crouched down in our front entry, his legs
splayed like a spider's, his face nearly touching the maple flooring
we had just installed. “Mr. Riggins!” he said, “this is the
most beautiful floor I have ever seen!”
Our wonderful mutt
Ella loved the water. She even liked baths. But if you let go of
her for one second she would spring out of the guest bathtub and
shake soapy water over everything.
When we first
moved to Traverse City our daughter Laura was angry and lonely. She
longed for the idyllic life she had shared with her Seymour friends.
Her mother and I spent hours sitting with her on her bed, trying to
console her. She was brave, she forgave us, and she found a way to
start a new life. She has done that several times. All of it.
A number of good
things happened in Dan's room but honestly, my favorite memory there
involved his beloved kitten Lindele. When he first brought her home
she would climb all the way up his drapes, then mew in distress at
finding herself so far up there. That same Lindele now stalks her
temporary domain in the new building at church with her partner in
crime, Oreo the Second.
Oreo the First
ruled our bedroom. But some of my best memories there came on
Christmas Eves. Despite our best intentions Linda and I were never
ready for the next morning. So after leading candlelight services I
would set up shop, wrapping presents on our bed and watching
Christmas music programs. It was an excellent way to decompress from
church and to prepare to celebrate with family.
My favorite memory
in our bathroom involves my beloved. That's all I'm saying.
Our newly-planted
church held one of its first worship services in our living room. We
pushed the furniture to the walls and set out folding chairs. Linda
and some ladies laid out a feast for afterward. Maybe thirty
attended. Soon we could not fit in anybody's living room.
We hosted many a
meal in our dining room. I remember doing the “Alphonse, Gastone”
(look it up) thing with my dad before he finally relented to my
insistence that he carve a turkey. I did not know at the time I
would never share another Thanksgiving with him. But I recall much
laughter at those meals, and a lot of story-telling, some of it
possibly true.
We shared hours on our sun porch,
eating meals and playing table games during the warmer months. Out
in the backyard Linda and I once had a bittersweet playtime with Grand-dog
Brianna, who had lived with us for a year. Her rightful and loving
owner, Dan, would take her back to live with him the next morning.
He graciously stepped aside to let us wrestle and tug and hug her.
We were so focused on her we did not even notice he was taking
pictures of the whole thing. I really can't look at them still. I
will never forget my son's compassion.
In the utility room downstairs Laura
sat for hours, whispering gently to our dying
cat, Shadow. Shadow came to live with me all the way back in the
dorm at IU. I will never forget my daughter's compassion.
How many hours did I spend slogging
away on the treadmill downstairs while gasping out questions to
Jeopardy answers? But the greatest memory I have of our basement is
also one of my favorites of all. My beloved (a fellow IU basketball
band alumnus) and I watched the 2011 IU v. Kentucky game together on
the couch. We screamed at the refs (and when I say “we” I mean,
“we”), we shouted and moaned. When Watford hit The Shot we
jumped up and hugged and carried on before calling her parents to
share the moment with people we knew would understand.
Of such things are
lives made. I am deeply grateful to God for the gift of the years in
our house on Summit View.
