For the record

I am still catching up on my e-mails and general day-to-day detritus and read through Kathleen's last two posts and, for the record, I find no impertinence whatsoever. A dog is absolutely a part of the family; and in Garth's case, maybe more so than in most families. The mornings must be terribly sad. And I love what she says about the interaction with people that having a dog affords, the forced entry into the world at large and what a joy that must be. Everybody likes playing with a dog.

She mentions how different her memory and feeling of the stone house is now, and I have a house story of my own to add. One morning last week, when my dad was able to stay home and care for Mom for a while, the kids and I snuck off to Smithfield to take a peek at the old house. It was the first time in two years that I had been brave enough to do so.
And ... it is for sale. The people who bought the house did not love it properly. The trees, windows and doors are covered with NO TRESPASSING signs. Part of the split-rail fence is down; this was common, for bits to fall, but I always ran out to fix it. Now nobody is there to fix the fence. The yard is overgrown, the bushes a wreck, the house nearly unviewable from the road. My curtains are still there, though, barely parted to allow a peek inside to the house I loved so much.

My tears were hot and angry, and I wondered, Could we have it again? Especially if we end up coming back to North Carolina a lot to help care for my mother? But would I want it again? The neighborhood was going downhill and, frankly, we would have been moving anyway. The writing was on the wall. But when I look at that house, I think not of the sadnesses and scary things -- a drunk 19-year-old missing the curve and plowing through said fence, being ejected from the car and dying in front of my husband; the man who was shot in his yard across the street while my children played; the person who took pot shots at the house and terrified us for a night -- and I remember happinesses. The baby boy who called it his first home. Christmases. The Mother's Day when I came out of the shower to see that my daughters had written "I love you" messages in chalk all over the driveway. Why couldn't the new people love that house the same way?