The Good Stuff

All the grandchildren say the house is haunted, and they just may be right. Fifty years of Christmas Eve Quail dinners linger in the kitchen. That just doesnt' fade away very quickly. On the patio where thousands of cocktails were consumed and countless steaks were cooked on a gas grill beneath the spreading branches of the old 'acorn' tree, the ghost of Daddy Doc smiles back at me in a reflection off of the French Doors. In the Den, the footstools are gone, but it's a sure thing that my brother still can't fly. In the tile, Mom's reflection still glares at me, and she's still pissed. Somehow, it's my fault that Matt can't fly. Miss Dot sits in the lounger in the Den, sipping a cocktail and telling us all 'one damn thing'. Don't blink, you'll miss her. Yeah, this house is haunted.

Today, to the casual observer, the house appears mostly empty. The silver and jewlery were carried off some time back. Last weekend, we removed furniture. As we went from room to room sorting out memories and wading though smiles and tears, it became clear to me that this house would never be empty. Though Mom and Dad no longer lived there, and despite being stripped of it's contents, this house would always be full of history. Just stepping through the door brings back floods of memories and emotions. Though the pictures have been taken down from the walls, the memories still hover in the air.

In emptying the house, we are closing a chapter. We each come away from our home with things to remind us of Mom and Dad. Mom will always smile back at me from her secretary. I'll see her every time I use the corn bread stick mold. In looking at the swords, I'll remember her Antique Store. Dad will forever be sitting on the couch, cigarette and cocktail in hand, explaining things to me. He had a certain clarity of thought. On this, the last weekend in the house, the old grump, smiling and sitting on the couch, explained to me what the 'good stuff' is. I understand.