A Memorable House(Hayden Fleetwood) I stood staring at the heap of ashes that was once my childhood home. I was informed of the fire early that morning and decided to visit the site in order to bid farewell. I knew this would be difficult for me. It was bad enough when my parents decided to retire and move to Florida , leaving their home of thirty years behind. I missed pulling into the long gravel driveway and up to the stately white house which peered through the tree covered yard. That day the same gravel drive guided me past familiar scenery, but the beauty of my beloved home no longer existed. The only remnants of what used to be, aside from the memories that my family and I shared, were the brick fireplace and chimney and heaps of charred particles still smoking from the night’s fire. A shabby shed stood in the distance, appearing lonely with the large house no longer standing before it.

I had wanted to purchase the home when my parents put it on the market, but I was in law school at the time and my income barely payed for the one room apartment that I shared with my wife. I had always dreamed of one day becoming established in my law practice and purchasing the house. It held so many memories and I wanted to raise a family of my own in the same place that I myself was raised. But that dream was no longer feasible. As I stood among the trees I could see the image of the white two-story home with its wood siding and dark grey shutters. I envisioned the inviting front porch completed by a swing and lovely potted flowers. I then pictured the handsome front door made of cherry wood, intricate carvings and frosted glass. I could hear the distinctive sound that was made when it was knocked upon. On holidays and birthdays this knock meant family, food and gifts. The thought of the old door, which had welcomed countless visitors, having been destroyed by fire was agonizing. My imagination took me through the front door and placed me in my home’s grand foyer. The door closed behind me and my footsteps on the hardwood floor made their usual sound while echoes chased them and bounced around in the corners of the high ceiling. The lofty foyer housed perfectly the massive Christmas tree placed there each holiday season. It was always beautifully adorned with tinsel, lights, and ornaments, many of them homemade. The exterior of our house during the Christmas season was just as magnificent as the décor inside. Lights accentuated the front door and outlined every window. Each year my mother would have us children gather pinecones which she would use to fashion a beautiful wreath for hanging on the front door. Most every season the door was adorned with a wreath, giving it additional welcoming charm. My thoughts drifted back from the exterior of the home and reentered the foyer. To the left of the entry way was our family room and to the right the dining room. A wood staircase leading to the second story was easily seen upon entry as it sat between the dining room and the hallway. The family room contained a most cozy fireplace suited for a blanket, a book, and a cold day. The dining room was rarely used, aside from special occasions, until our family grew so large that our kitchen table no longer seated the seven of us. We then progressed to the long rectangular dining room table to keep crowding to a minimum. Dinner was often the only time of day in which the entire family was gathered together. I learned to cherish the moments spent with my parents and siblings as we shared stories and reflected upon the day’s events. We each had our special spot at the dinner table and I remember them vividly. I sat on the right side of my little sister and my younger brother sat on the left. My mother strategically placed her between the two of us who seemed to have a problem keeping our hands to ourselves. My older brother sat directly across from me and next to him was my older sister’s place. Mother sat next to her and Dad was seated at the end of the table. He was conveniently closest to the kitchen which made it easy for him, a rather hearty man, to get up for second helpings. My virtual tour then led me to the kitchen. It was large and my mother used every inch of it well. She enjoyed cooking and has always been good at it. I can remember numerous times when all bar and counter space was filled with dishes or desserts whose destination was a bake sale, church member’s home, party, etc. From the kitchen the stairway to the basement could be seen. The basement served mostly in storing junk until each summer when it was cleaned and organized for a colossal yard sale. I wandered from the kitchen and into the family room. The family room was the only room in the house containing a television. Fighting over control of the television caused problems at times, but fewer than one might expect from a family of seven. Each day we were allowed only an hour to watch TV apiece. More time was spent outdoors roaming the two acres of land or engaging ourselves in games of war or “house” when my little sister had her way. A passion for reading which I shared with my two sisters also kept bickering over the TV to a minimum. A sliding door led directly from the family room into our spacious backyard. Moving from the family room I walked down the hallway leading directly to the front door and took a left to scale the stairs. I suddenly remembered the special sporting events that my siblings and I had conducted on this stairway. My favorite of them was “mattress surfing”, where we would pile onto a mattress at the top of the stairs, push off, and sail at rapid speeds to the bottom. We were masters of this game and not too many serious injuries occurred during this game. The injury that is most renowned among the members of our family today is one inflicted upon my father. Now, he did actually join in the fun a couple of times and was rather good at it (skill for the game must run in the family). The accident did not, however, take place while he was “surfing”. He was just an innocent civilian coming home from a long day at the workplace who opened the door at the most inappropriate time. He began to walk in as soon as my brother and I pushed off at the top and the door was promptly slammed in his face, his nose to be more specific, when we reached the bottom. He actually sustained a broken nose and we were banned from the game for a while, but he minimized our punishment by simply adding a “lock the door before surfing rule” to our game. As I thought about the incident I began to smile. My virtual tour remained at a halt as I stood on the staircase recalling additional memories of the house and the way I remember it as a young boy. When my little sister, the youngest of the family, was born a portion of the basement was turned into an extra bedroom for my oldest brother, Jonathan. “The lair” was rarely clean and contained so much junk that no one but him ever stepped foot in it. Upstairs we used to switch rooms for fun. We would sometimes do so without parental consent, which was usually fine until we began painting and wallpapering the rooms ourselves. I smiled as a myriad of such recollections rushed through me.

I loved that house - the elegant exterior, the welcoming front door, the magnificent entryway, and hardwood floors - everything about it. So many wonderful memories were created within the house, but only memories remained. My dream of buying my old home and raising a family in it had gone up in smoke. Just a year before the awful fire I graduated from law school and I had recently secured a job at a law firm making what I hoped would be enough money to attempt to purchase the house. If the owners were not willing to sell (and I was prepared to offer a great deal of money if necessary), I figured that I could always wait and save my plan for the future. But now there was no hope of ever buying the house. My imagination’s ability to vividly recreate the home was not powerful enough to keep me from the reality of the mound of ashes at my feet. I realized that my dream was shattered, but the greater importance of family was now, more than ever before, highlighted in my mind. The memories created in this wonderful house were made possible by time spent with my amazing family. There was very minute help from the place which was lucky enough to host the memories.

I left feeling enlightened, yet with some degree of remaining sorrow. A week after paying my dues to the house I received a call from the current homeowner. He informed me that before the fire he and his wife had been in the process of deciding whether or not to take a job in another state. The destruction of their home, they felt, had made the decision for them. They were looking to sell their property and had called me since I had previously expressed my desire to someday purchase the home. I thanked the owner for his call and told him that I would consider his offer. Initially I was pretty sure that I did not want the land. I did not feel that any house built on it would live up to the splendor of the one before and did not want to deal with the hassle of construction. I found myself back at the property looking it over and trying to decide if I wanted to purchase it. I knew there would be work involved if I did - hard work. My wandering around the wooded two acres took me to the dark shed that remained behind the former location of the house. Inside were mostly old gardening tools and yard equipment and it seemed that the shed had not undergone much recent use. The only thing that I noticed apart from rusty cans and equipment was a large tarp covered object leaning on the far wall of the shed. I stumbled over the junk covered floor and lifted the tarp from the rectangular form. I stared in awe at what stood before me. It was the handsome cherry door, with its ornate carvings and glass - the same one that had greeted each visitor of my beloved home and that had smiled on every pleasant memory made. I realized that the original finish had been removed and it was evident that the door was in the process of being restored, thus its temporary location in the shed. The discovery of the old door planted in me a desire to purchase the land in order to build my future family and me a house. We will make the house a home and grant it the privilege of seeing us share a memorable life together. Throughout this entire experience I have been reminded of the value of family and the time spent with it. My childhood house had been destroyed, but the memories, the more important part of my youth, still remain.

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