Former homes conjure memories

“Let’s go this way,” I said.

My wife and I were in Richmond on the city’s east side. We were there to pick up absolutely the last thing we needed.

With the item safely in the trunk, I turned east down an alley behind the seller’s home. And when we got to the next street, I thought I recognized where we were.

“Let’s go this way,” I said.

And about a minute later we were driving by the house where my Grandfather and Grandmother Ronald lived when they were in Richmond. 

Grandfather Ronald was pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Portland for many years in the 1920s and 1930s.

It was to Richmond that they retired after he put in a stint directing a Presbyterian home in North Manchester.

And that was the house I remembered from my childhood.

Not much had changed in the 60-plus years since they’d lived there.

There was a small, sloping front lawn with a retaining wall and steps to the house from the sidewalk.

The front porch was still there, and I knew that if I had walked through the door the parlor would have been on my left. That’s where my grandfather’s books resided.

And that’s where he often sat, in his later years, in an upholstered chair facing the street. There was, I still remember, a stain on the upholstery from the hair oil he used like so many of his generation.

The living room, I knew, would be much smaller than I remembered it. But I was pleased to see that off the south side of it, French doors still opened out onto a pergola.

I remembered the narrow, claustrophobic staircase at the center of the house and the kitchen at the back. And I still remember the somewhat mysterious feel of the neighborhood in the eyes of a kid. It may not have been a big city, but it was nothing like a small town.

The alleys in the neighborhood were paved with concrete, for instance. A far cry from the cinder alleys in my hometown.

We drove on past and were immediately in the neighborhood where my parents lived when my dad took a position in the administration of Earlham College. 

One minute the house where my father died was on our right, seconds later the earlier house where my folks lived when Connie and I were married was on our left.

Each brought an explosion of memories:

•A wedding shower for my parents’ Jay County friends.

•Serious conversations with my folks about our future.

•Goofy horseplay in a rec room with my sister that can still evoke a laugh today.

•A second birthday party for a nephew with a cake featuring Cookie Monster.

•Thanksgivings, Christmases, good moments and not so good moments.

All of them could be found, and you’ll find the same in all the houses in your family’s history. 

I turned another corner, and we were moving through another neighborhood.

It seemed the right time to say it: “Let’s go home.”