My House by Anne Born

I was out for a late afternoon walk. I came up the alley toward Woodruff and saw the For Sale sign planted at an angle on the front lawn as it slopes down toward the sidewalk. My house was for sale and in that instant, I wanted to see it.

We’d moved out of the house in 1965 but stayed close in the neighborhood; I assume it was because my sister was still in the parish school. My dad took Portage to work, and we could walk to church from that house, although we rarely did. Ironically, before my mother learned to drive, walking to church was a huge priority. But cars change people, and the convenience of the driving and the parking lot, and the walking right in and the waiting till the last minute to leave must have convinced her that her driving us there beat us walking there. Still, knowing you could walk, I guess, meant something. It was empowering.

What a tiny house it was: four rooms, four people sharing the space. There was a living room and kitchen in front, two small bedrooms and a bath in the back. The windows were all around and on hot nights, the breeze was everything. We had a window that looked at the house next door, and a window that looked out to the yard and the garage my dad built with his dad. The kitchen was just big enough for our dinette set. Four chairs around a square table. I must have washed and dried a thousand dishes in that kitchen.

There was a staircase that went down into the basement leading off the door that opened out to the driveway. We’d leave our boots just inside there in the winter and after school, I’d hide out in the basement, watching American Bandstand. Even though I never got any good at dancing, I wanted to know all the dances. I liked memorizing the names in case somebody wanted to talk about dancing and I could fit in. I rarely fit in.

I called the broker as soon as I got home and asked for a showing.

“Are you interested in buying the house?” I wasn’t prepared for that. Honestly, I wasn’t sure.

“Are you representing a buyer for the house?” No, I just need to see it.

“Let me put you in touch with the seller’s broker, then.”

I waited. I was having such a hard time with the simplest question: “If you aren’t going to buy it, why do you need to see the house?”

I looked up the listing, hoping to see the pictures. The kitchen looked nice and the bathroom was new. The basement had been cleaned up a lot and I barely recognized it. The details were important. Built in 1951. Yes, my parents were married in April that year in Chicago. My aunt helped them buy the house as a wedding present to the young couple starting out. The garage came later and my mother planted rose bushes in the back just past the picnic table and the Weber grill. We’d play croquet out there or imagine we were pirates, setting sail the next day for parts unknown. I used to lie in the grass and pretend I was flying.

“You’re interested in the house on Woodruff? Are you a buyer, a broker? How can I help you?”

All I could say was, “It’s my house. I’d like to see it, please?”

First Communion, sledding down the driveway into the street, cookouts with hot dogs and hamburgers, slices of cold watermelon, Girl Scout meetings. If they scraped off the layers of paint on the living room walls, I bet they’d find the paint my dad used.

“Do you think we can make this work? I am not going to buy the house, I would just like to see it, please. Just for a few minutes inside, if I can, please.”

I do not remember now if I supported our move to the bigger house down the block or if, like most things in those days, I rejected everything that was offered to me even if it were an improvement. I do not remember if my parents were sad to leave. I can guess my dad carried my mother over the threshold into that house. They had it all to themselves for months. It must have been hard to let it go.

The broker called me back.

“Ma’am, we are not going to be able to show the house. It’s in contract, the closing is on for tomorrow, and it’s been sanitized.”

All I wanted was to go home again. It was just that simple. I wanted to go home. I’ve lived in other states, another house, and more than a few apartments, but I’m not sure you ever shake off home. I’ve used that phrase, “I’m going home,” to mean “I will be returning to the place where I keep my clothes.” But this little house with the four rooms and the big backyard and the garage my dad built with his dad – it seems like home to me. There’s a trace of me there, of my family. Something the new owners will probably not notice right away. I wanted to catch a glimpse of the little girl I was there.

“Ma’am, maybe you can reach out to the new owners and ask them if you can see it once they’ve moved in, OK?”

Over all these years, there probably has been a succession of new owners. I do not know who we sold it to or who bought it after them. The latest was a woman who never lived in the house. She rented it to a family with children who lived there for ten years. I hailed the mom one night when I was riding my bike. She was on the front lawn and I told her it was my house so she gave me the story. I’m sure now that she went in and told her husband that some weird old woman on a bike claimed to own their house. Why did I want her to know it was my house?

I have not been back on Woodruff in weeks. I am happy now that the house went to a new family. Maybe they will stay a long while and celebrate their own First Communions and have the Girl Scouts over to work on their badges. Houses hold memories and grow rich over time. The walls become imprinted with the stories of the people who live there, like a base coat to the paint you can see. It makes a house warm and welcoming, and safe. I played with dolls there, I danced, and I longed to travel the world. It’s where I learned to ride a bike.

I cannot see myself bothering the new owners to traipse through their new house, making awkward small talk about how I used to live there. In a way, I do feel like I am letting it go all over again even though I hadn’t thought about that house in a long while. Still, it would have been nice to pay it a visit, the way you stop by to see an old friend: to catch up and savor shared memories.

“Remember when you used to…?”

Yes, yes I do.

“And this is where you…” I know. I remember.