But I learned that life in an old house connected me to a greater history. The day we closed on the house, I picked up my son Nathan—who was seven years old at the time—from school and brought him to his new home. Together, we swept the front porch and began to wash the exterior windows so that light could stream in and brighten the living room and adjoining library. Nathan knew that there had been a family, the Guy family, that had lived in the house for around forty years and that Mr. and Mrs. Guy had recently died. As I soaped up the windows and he rinsed them off with the hose, Nathan posed one of those questions children ask that remind you innocence and true genius are inseparable. He wondered whether I thought Mr. Guy minded us living in his house. I looked at Nathan, and carefully considered the question. Implicit was the assumption that this house had a history—and a life—that would include our family but extended far beyond us. Our family’s individual history would blend with and become a part of all the histories of the families that had lived here before us-- and would live here after us. It was a comforting thought. I told Nathan that Mr. Guy would be pleased to see that there was another boy living here, helping take care of the house and growing up in the rooms he had built upstairs for his sons. It seemed to me, I continued, that by taking up residence here, our family was helping this house live again. Nathan thought about this for a while, turned it over in his mind, and finally nodded in agreement.
Over the past years, we have created a history in this house and for this house. Our daily rhythms and rituals parallel the rhythms and rituals created by past residents of this home. There is a comfort knowing that this house has held people as they experienced both great joy and great sadness. This house reminds me, every single day, that some things are permanent—others fleeting. And that some history bears repeating. Our house has become a favorite gathering place for my teenage son and his group of friends. It’s not my skill as a host—Domino’s supplies the pizza--but I think it is the relaxed nature of our environment—there’s nothing too fine, too precious here. The kids do not pile into the back den with the television and the DVD player, but assemble on our front porch, and scatter themselves over the wicker chairs, the steps, and the porch swing. They sometimes spill out onto the front yard, or the sidewalk, but it is the front porch that draws them back. I look out the front window to check on them, to make sure that the music on the CD player is not too loud or that their horseplay has not gotten to rambunctious. Occasionally, in a lull, I overhear bits of their conversation. Kids still talk about the same things, it seems. I know the girls they like; the guys they dislike—and that a Corvette is still a cool choice for a first car…~Donna
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