602 Main Street Savannah, Missouri
Moving On
The poet T.S. Elliot wrote that we should not cease from exploration; and that at the end of our exploration, we would return to the place where we started and know it for the first time. That’s how I feel about our old family home on Main Street
It was Memorial day, 1960-something, when we moved into the house on 602 Main Street. I was in junior high school. Kennedy was president and about to murdered in Dallas. The country was taking its first baby steps into space, and the three B’s ruled my music world: Beatles, Beach Boys, and Byrds.
A church we barely knew helped move us in. I think my Dad thought it would be a transition home.. Perhaps a few years here and then we’d move to a newer ranch-style home that was all the rage in small-town Savannah, Missouri.
That was not to be. My Dad died in that old house; sitting in his easy chair; the televised Royals playing on unmindful of his passing.
My Dad was a thinking man, and his handy work is all over that house. There’s not a square inch he did not personally alter. When he needed floor space where stairs went down to the basement, Dad created a series of ingeniously hidden, hinged doors that gave access to the basement. Otherwise they looked like a regular floor and wall.
Dad rebuilt the kitchen where he once caught me kissing Becky Rickman.
He knocked out countless walls, built a closet with a secret room, completely redid the upstairs, and built his own bright yellow kitchen cabinets. Dad was a “make do” miracle worker.
It’s hard to believe it’s finished. The same church moved Mom out. Twelve men and five women appeared from nowhere and worked liked wild, stopping only to eat (they were, of course, Baptist). Then it was over.
After the Baptist cleaned the place out, we all sat on the living room floor and told stories. My sister loved the front porch. She stayed out there for hours on the swing waving to boys who honked their horns as they drove by.
My brother remembered the backyard pole vault pit and basketball court. I remembered Becky Rickman and pork chops with apple sauce.
The grandchildren remembered all the after school snacks with grandma. Years and years of peanut butter make for good stories.
Mom waxed philosophical. She remembered the good times, and there were many. She admitted there were hard times, too. Mostly, she said, I remember the in-between times. The times when we were just living. Those are the best times, she said.
One winter Mom and Dad stayed up late each evening to watch “MASH” reruns. Every episode was new to them. They sat in their easy chairs and enjoyed just being together. Each had their nonverbal way to say, “Love You.” It was a winter of laughs and loving looks in the house that Dad built.
The church we attended was just across the street. The pastor used to come over to our house between Sunday School and Church to sneak a cigarette —I was with him, and his cigarette, the Sunday morning Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald live on TV.
For one glorious summer I went to church every Sunday night with Barbara Roberts. After church we went to the Dairy Queen to eat (we, too, were Baptist) and then came back and sat on the front porch swing. Soon enough, kids were everywhere. Every car that came by honked hello. Sitting on the living room floor telling the stories of our life was the last time I was in the house. Knowing our time in this house was completed overcame me. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the passing of time.
Tears welled up, and I had to leave. (I do that a lot -leave silently before the good-byes are said.) I sat in my car and tried not to cry. Don’t ask why, but please don’t think badly of those tears.
I drove down the back alley. Turning up main street I knew what I would do. Going past the family home I laid on the horn one last time.
Hello Dad and your Old House! Hello Mom and All My Family! Hello Becky and Barbara, Pastor Fred, the Church, Loving Looks, and all the In-Between Moments that make up a life! It was a good run, and I know it now; maybe for the very first time.
