It’s been almost a year since Aunt Val died.
I’m driving with my dad across the San Fernando Valley, on our way to Aunt Val’s house. Though we were all promised that the house would remain in the family, it has been sold, and there are many things to be picked up and moved out. Thankfully, there has been precious little pettiness and bickering within the family about her things so far.
My dad has asked me to help him pick up a china cabinet which belonged to my grandmother, and is intended for my mother.
I wonder why he didn’t ask my younger, stronger brother to help out, but I don’t ask. I’m always happy when my dad asks me to do things with him, so I decide not to push my luck.
We ride mostly in silence, but not uncomfortably. I’m lost in thought, though it won’t occur to me until later that this is the last time I’ll make this drive. This drive that I’ve made since I was in a car seat. I’m thinking about what I could talk to my dad about: baseball? the kids? my family? work? We end up talking about them all, and the drive passes very quickly.
As we drive down Aunt Val’s street, it hits me: this is it. I’ve been asked to help my dad move furniture, but I’m really here to say goodbye to this house that’s been part of my life since I was a child.
A tremendous sadness washes over me as we back into the driveway.
I exchange polite hellos with Aunt Val’s daughter, who is responsible for the selling of the house, and walk inside.
It’s the first time I’ve been there since her death, and the house feels cold and empty. It’s more than just the furniture being gone. It’s her warmth and love that are missing.
Most of the furniture has been moved out, but certain things remain untouched: her bookcase, filled to overflowing with pictures of the family and children’s artwork…some of it mine…still dominates tne side of the living room, the recliners where my great grandparents spent most of the last years of their lives opposite. I remember sitting in my Papa’s chair, while Aunt Val sat next to me, watching Love Boat and Fantasy Island, thrilled that I was staying up past my bedtime, watching shows intended for grownups, putting one over on my parents who would often drop my siblings and me off for the weekend.
I loved those weekends. When we spent time with Aunt Val we were loved. We were the center of the
Universe, and though she was well into her 70s, she would play with us, walk with us to get snacks,
let us stay up late. It was wonderful.
In the living room, the table where Aunt Val would put the artificial tree at Christmas is gone, though it’s footprints still mark the carpet. In my mind, I put it back, fill the space beneath it with gifts, warm the air with the laughter and love of the entire family gathered around it, singing songs and sipping cider.
I blink and the room is empty again. The warm light of memory is replaced with the harsh sunlight of
the fading afternoon. Aunt Val’s dog Missy is nosing at my hand, asking to go outside.
I lead her toward the patio doors. Aunt Val’s dining room table, where the adults would sit at reunions and holiday meals, is still there, covered in paperwork and trash. It’s a little obscene.
When I was little, Aunt Val would always sit at the card table –the kid’s table– with us, and when I was fourteen or so I was moved to the “adult’s table.” The next year I begged to be granted a spot
with her at the kid’s table again.
Missy is impatient. She urges me through the kitchen. I look at the cabinet where my great grandparents kept their Sugar Corn Pops cereal. Regardless of the time of day my brother and sister
and I would arrive at her house, we were always hungry for cereal, and Aunt Val was always happy to
oblige. This cabinet, which I couldn’t even reach, this cabinet which held so many wonders is now empty, and at my eye level. I am sad that my own children will never get to look up at it’s closed door, and proclaim themselves starving with a hunger that can only be cured by a trip to the Honeycomb hideout.
The kitchen counters are littered with dishes and glasses. Notes written in Aunt Val’s handwriting still cling to the refrigerator, surrounded by my cousin Josh’s schoolwork.
They say that when a house is passed over by a tornado, it can do strange things to the things inside. They say that sometimes a whole room can be destroyed, and the table will still be set, candlesticks standing, untouched by the violence of the storm. As I look at the refrigerator, unchanged in nearly a year, I wonder why some things have been left alone while others have been
completely dismantled. It’s like a half-hearted attempt has been made to honor her memory.
I walk onto the patio. Missy runs after a bird, and disappears around the corner of the house, leaving me alone.
I stand on the patio, knowing that it will be for the last time. I see the backyard through the eyes of a child, a teenager, an adult, a parent. I look at Aunt Val’s pool, and remember when I was so small, riding around it on a big wheel seemed to take all day. I remember playing with my cool Trash Compactor Monster in the shallow end, before I was big enough to brave the deep end and it’s mysteries, known only to the Big Cousins. I remember being unable to ever successfully complete a
flip off the diving board, and reflexively rub my lower back.
I look at the slide, and the sobs which have been threatening since I walked into the house begin.
In summer of last year, I’d taken Ryan and Nolan to spend the day with Aunt Val. The three of us sat
with her on the patio, eating hot dogs she’d grilled for us, drinking punch she’d made. The kids talked eagerly with her about their plans for the rest of the summer and the upcoming school year. I watched her listen to them, the same way she’d listened to me say the same things twenty years earlier, happy that they were getting to share in her unconditional love the way I had.
We went swimming. Nolan and Ryan both doing cannonballs and flips, Aunt Val always giving them an approving, “Good for you, kiddo!” after each trick.
God, I can hear her voice as I write this.
When they grew tired of tricks, they took to the slide. They took turns for a few minutes, going head-first, on their backs, on their knees.
Ryan was sitting at the top of the slide, waiting for Nolan to get out of the landing area, when he screamed and raced into the water. I immediately knew something was wrong, and rushed to the water’s edge to meet him.
I got him out, and saw that he’d been stung by a wasp.
We patched him up with baking soda and some Tylenol, and prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon inside, watching TV.
Aunt Val wouldn’t hear any of that. She picked up a broom, and some Raid, and marched out to the angry nest of wasps, which we now knew was just beneath the upper edge of the slide. The wasps were pretty pissed, and beginning to swarm, and I couldn’t stop my 84 year old great aunt from wiping them out, so the kids could continue to play.
I’m looking at the slide, remembering that day, remembering how scared I was that she’d get stung and would go into shock, remembering how much fun the kids had with her.
I remembered that day, and recalled a thought I had back then, watching her battle with those wasps: Aunt Val isn’t going to be with us forever. Some day I’m going to stand here, and she’ll be gone, and I’ll cry.
So I cry. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her. It’s not fair that she died. It’s not fair at all. I miss her. She was in perfect health one day, and the next she was gone. It’s not fair, and I miss her, and I have to say goodbye to this house, and that’s not fair either.
The finality of her loss takes hold, and refuses to let go. I cry until my sides hurt and my throat is dry. My cheeks are soaked, my nose is running. It’s fitting that as I bid farewell to the house and person who played such an important part in my childhood, I sob like a child.
After awhile, I pull myself together, take a hard look at the backyard, run my hand along the slide, and say goodbye out loud.
I walk back into the house, and I help my dad load the china cabinet into the car. It is heavy and cuts into my hands as I lift it. I’m nervous about dropping it.
Aunt Val’s daughter comes out of the house. I want to scream at her for selling off this enormous part of my childhood, but I don’t. I continue tying down the cabinet, tell her goodbye, and get into the car.
We pull out of the driveway, and drive down the street for the last time.
I speak effusively with my dad on the drive home. I talk about the kids. I talk about work. I talk about the Dodgers and I ask lots of questions about when I was a kid. I want to cherish this time with him, make the most of it. I don’t want to waste any of the time we have together.
When we get home with the china cabinet, my mom asks me how it was being at Aunt Val’s house.
“Tough,” I tell her.
She understands.
We unload the china cabinet. My dad hugs me tightly and thanks me for helping with him. I tell them
that I love them, and I drive home, alone and silent.
It’s been a year since Aunt Val died.
Truth is, it could be a day, or a decade. She is gone, and I will always miss her.
210 thoughts on “Houses In Motion”
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Wil,
Why worry about acting when you can write like this? Keep it up!
Wow.
Thanks, Wil.
I had all these things to say, and well, I don’t know how to anymore.
I lost my grandparents in the last 2 years.
Thank you for writing that and sharing it…
DUDE…
just when I think it’s safe to read…you come up with another stirring story for us to cry over. Thank you Wil.
Wil.
It’s not fair to make grown men cry.
A very touching tribute to a special family member. As I read it I was reminded of what I wrote in tribute to my “adopted” grandfather who passed away this past July. I am so thankful that I was able to sit at his bedside the night before he died and say all the things I needed to.
http://www.geocities.com/miesl_dru/GeorgeAugustHanson.doc
Life is what it is, and it is not always fair or right… nor does it make sense. All we can do is cherish the memories of those we lose, and treasure the time we have with those still with us.
Lovely as always, Wil. But you know, it really IS fair. Death is just a part of life, and it sounds like your Aunt Val was more blessed than most. She certainly was blessed with a caring great nephew. If we all just went on and on, the true experiences of life wouldn’t be as precious. It’s the very fact that we all are part of a cycle that makes us happy when someone is born and sad when someone dies. Her part of the cycle was done, and even though she’s gone, the memory of her love creates a ripple in your own life and how you think about those you love who are still with you. And the cycle goes on.
Wil:
Thanks. My father has passed away 10 years ago, my mother 8. Oddly, today, I was discussing the days my parents died with a friend at work, then I come home to this. I cried as I read this. So many memories come back as the holidays approach. Be assured that over time the memories will become a great comfort to you. They are how Aunt Val will live on.
Tom Backus
How strange? I have not cried about anything in a long time. What you wrote about your aunt made me cry. You and your family will be fine. Also you are a very good writer. You write about what you know and you certainly capture the essence of what you know. Love ya lots.
absolutely beautiful and so sad, wil. god bless you for sharing this with us.
Dammit Wheaton – ya made me cry!
Now I have to explain to my wife why I was crying at the computer. Not the easiest thing to do.
Wil-
I lost my father almost 9 years ago in a tragic car accident. I must say that what you just wrote brought tears to my eyes, simply because I felt the same exact way many times over the years. Death is never easy to deal with, but I am glad you have your family to lean on. Without my mom and brother, I don’t know if I would be as strong as I am now, or if I would be around at all. Your writing is so powerful, keep at it.
How is it you became an actor and not a writer?
It is good.
!+
It’s amazing how powerful the written word is but even more powerful when espressed as eloquently as you have. It’s always diffiucult for me to write about losing my father to cancer. It takes an enormous amount of courage to share those very private thoughts of grief. Thank you so much for having the courage and heart to share with us.
http://www.bohra.net/archive/gibran/gibran27.html
Now I miss Aunt Val :'(
I really needed a good cry, thank-you. You’ve brought up in amazingly vivid detail what most people feel when they lose someone close to them. I’ve had those moments, when you realize that someone isn’t going to be there forever, and then they’re gone.
Cherish every moment you have with the people you love.
Thanks for a nice cathartic cry. I lost my mom about 3 weeks ago. I’m still trying to sort it out.
The reason we all root for you, Wil, is because you’re a Real People. Thanks for being on the planet. And making the things that suck, suck a whole lot less.
Will,
Thanks so much for sharing your life with us, your talented writing, sensitivity and wisdom never ceases to amaze me. Your ability to touch your readers with your words and inner thoughts is truly a gift that so many of us truly appreciate.
Wil,
Three years ago today, I lost my father. It was the worst time of my life I was 41 at the time and was turned back into a 14 year old. He lived in the house where he died for only 2 years. It was supposed to be his retirement palace. When I dream about him, it usualy takes place in the house where I grew up. They say the dearly departed return to us in our dreams. They comfort us and let us know THEY are alright and they still love us. That drive to pick up the china closet wasn’t the last trip you made to your Aunt Val’s house. You’ll visit her there in your dreams, where she’ll remind you how much she loves you…and you’ll feel good about it.
Take care,
Bart
My Nan died two years ago this week, and I think of her every day. I can remember being so excited to spend summers at my Nan’s house, sleeping in the front bedroom, in the big bed. And we got the Quaker instant oatmeal for breakfast (the kind with the cool animal facts on the pouch!). Then we would take the bus downtown to explore. Nan gave unconditional love, and I was blessed to have her in my life for 32yrs.
Wil , you wrote so beautifully , the most evocative prose …I felt like I was there
Today I was filling out one of those “get to know your friends” email forwarding things. The ones where you answer questions about yourself that are supposed to tell your friends stuff about you. One of the questions was what celebrity would you want to have lunch with? My answer was Wil Wheaton(you’ve knocked Bruce Willis out of the top spot! No mean feat!)
This is a very good illustration of why.
You are a tremendously evocative writer, sensitive, funny, and very very cool.
I understood instantly what you were saying about a place being part of a person. My grandmother over a decade ago and I still miss her. Sometimes when I get “homesick” I miss her house in Arizona, where we spent most of our early childhood and several summers. I remember that enclosed back porch searching for her pet turtles, amidst a jungle of houseplants. I remember the oasis of her backyard, under the big trees, surrounded with flowerbeds. I remember lounging with my sister under the lemon tree which Grandma would take fresh lemons from and use the leaves to make tea. I remember playing under the orange and pomogranate trees in the middle of the yard, and sitting under them in the shade eating fresh pomogranates with Grandma and my little sister. Later when my next sister came along we moved here to Texas and when we went back to Grandma’s house, She was still the same and those wonderful trees and turtles were still there. In my heart they are there still and every time I think of Grandma and Grandpa, they are alive and they know that I am thinking of them and loving them.
Aunt Val knows that you are thinking of her and loving her too and you will see her again, as fiesty as ever!
Love and Light.
Wil,
What a touching tribute this was to your Aunt Val. I’m sure that she was there with you while you wrote it, and is there with you still, watching over you and yours. She sounds like she must have been one heck of a lady! I’m sure that she is incredibly proud to have a great grandson of your character and strength. Keep up the writing, you are amazing at putting feelings to words!
Take care! Terry
Very moving Wil.
Thank you for sharing that with us.
Later,
Dev.
Touching… it made me feel it to my own psyche, and reminded me of my own aunt which I miss her a lot.
Y’know, I get my make-up all nice and neat looking, and then I read this and my mascara’s running down my face. Thank, Wil…
You really have a way with words. Thank you for sharing yourself with all of us. You have a way of expressing feelings for all of us. You are very lucky to have had Aunt Val in your life, and I’m sure she knows how much you love her.
I was telling my mom last night all about your website. Was I telling her what a great actor I think you are? Nope (although I think you are)- I was telling her what a great writer I think you are. I can’t wait until your book comes out, Wil. And I would really love for you to come to good old New Joisey so I would have the pleasure of seeing you, and maybe even shaking your hand.
Love, Alicia
http://www.thewagband.com
Darn.
I’m not supposed to cry, it’s not right.
{{hug}}
Shouldn’t do that either, huh 😉
My grandma had to be moved out of her house thia spring, now my aunt is desparate to get me there to go through her things. I have been resisting.
And now I know why. Your writing opened my mind to the sadness that I have been avoiding.
Thanks for helping me understand my own life better.
Keep this up.
Robin
Will,
I’m sorry to hear about your Aunt Val and truly feel for you. Thank you very much for this intimate peak into your life. You’re an excellent and compelling writer and have a beautiful soul. Thank you again.
Mike Jones
P.S. I agree, it’s not fair to make someone cry at work!
I am crying along with everyone else. Wonderful writing and touching memories…
My siblings and I were never really that close to our Dad, we never did anything together. Then Mum and Dad got separated and so we hardly ever saw him. He died in March last year and sometimes I wish things could have been a bit different. The times that we had when we were little kids weren’t all that bad, but things just kept getting worse. But now that I think about it, I kinda miss him.
That was very touching, Wil. I cried too.
Thanks for this, Wil. My mother died in 1994. In 1996 I got married, and later that year had my first child. The next year my wife and I bought a house. We took some of the furniture out of my mother’s house, as well as some things with purely sentimental value.
I lived in that house off and on for 20 years. Now strangers live there. I don’t think about it much, but it’s hard when I do.
Wil,
Dammit, you made me cry at work again. The first time was the story about you and the kids playing.
This reminded me of when we had to clean out my Grandmother’s house. My sister, a few cousins & I were there to claim what we wanted before the rest and the house were to be sold/donated.
My parents and aunts & uncles had already gone through it.
I did, surprisingly, get the one thing that meant the most to me: the grandfather clock. Now it sits in my apartment. I keep it wound and running. Every time it chimes I think of when I was a kid at my grandparents’ house and how much I love them and miss them.
Peace,
Billman
Thank you Wil.
One of my earliest memories is of helping clear out my grandma’s house, when I was about 4. I still have happy memories of that big and exciting place, even all these years later. Strange that I can remember the house so clearly, but I have only the dimmest memories of its owner.
And remember every time you do something cool with the kids, a little part of Aunt Val lives on through you. 🙂
You’ve braved that much more admirably than I did. My grandfather died almost 4 years ago now. Battling disease that he inevitably beat by taking his own life.
He was my Aunt Val, the man that more than anyone in this world, that i could talk to.
Thank you for sharing your life, both good and bad, with us.
I have to go to a funeral this weekend for my best friend’s mother. The wake was a couple of weeks ago, and I drove around the town I grew up in, feeling like a complete ghost.
Your words today really. . . . helped. I think I’m ready to go to that funeral and say good-bye to someone who was always a quiet strength in my world.
This brought back a bunch of memories for me – my Grandmother’s house in Tacoma was the same for me what your Great-Aunt’s place was for you. I drove back several years later to her place. She kept it up, white place with pink trim. The fact that a crack house was two doors down seemed inconsequential to us. Now the place has gone to seed, hasn’t been painted since a few years before she died.
I miss her, too. It’s been 12 years.
Wil..you ARE the writer.
Some of you know that my friend and CEO of the company I work for died 2 weeks ago..I have been here 12 years and he was so close he was family.
I am still crying every day..and this entry did
not help in that aspect..however it did make me
realize how powerful a writer you have become.
Thank you for sharing Aunt Val with us.
I remember reading your first entry and the scent of the candle that lingered through the room…
Wil,
To be able to express what you did….it takes not only talent as a writer, it takes love, compassion, and a courage that not many people have. While reading this I remembered visiting my grandparents as a child, christmas eve and rasin pudding by the fire. We even had the same little table that the kids had to eat at. I want to thank you for this Wil. I never had the chance to do that with my grandparents house, but I feel that through you I did. I saw myself going through the old house, seeing it the way it was, the way I remember it. Again, thank you Wil for giving me the opportunity I never had.
That’s one of the hardest things about getting older is seeing the previous generation move on. When you’re little, if you’re lucky to have a good family, there is a security is having the Grown-Ups deal with everything. Then, when you’re in the middle, you get the best of both worlds — you get to be the Grown-Up for the younger ones, and still have the security of not being in that authoritative group of Elder Relatives who seem to be the matriarchs and patriarchs of the family.
Then, they die, and all of a sudden you have to be in that role and gawd’s sake, I can’t be in that role! I don’t know what the hell I’m doing!
That’s when it hits you that your elder relatives were no different from you, and that’s when you really really really start to clue into them. It’s one of the ugliest ironies of life that this happens after they’re gone. 😛
I see you have touched a common chord in human essence… the loss of a loved one hits all people, regardless of status, race, sex, etc.
Thank you for sharing a very well written vignett of your life.
A loving tribute indeed, and an inspiration as well. I have no children of my own, but I have several young nieces and nephews whom I adore. As they grow older, I will invite them to spend as much time as they like at my home, free to do as they please when they please, and receive my undivided attention and unconditional love. Each one will feel like the favorite.
i know i am echoing many others when i thank you for what you wrote yesterday.
my grandmother is very close to the end, and as my family gathers around her for the few days or weeks we have left to share with her, i know that many of the things you wrote will come to pass for us.
her house, the center of my roving childhood, will be sold. her posessions will be parcelled out among the family, so many bits of her life scattered among us. my mother and i, the oldest daughter of the oldest daughter, will likely bear most of the work in cleaning, sorting, and moving. the memories will flood back, ghosts hanging in corners and flitting through halls. they already do.
i visit her as often as i can, and even though she now sits in her armchair, often too weak to rise without assistance or talk for too long without tiring, i see her as she was. making family dinners, working on her calligraphy, designing my wedding invitations.
she is a loving, wonderful, formidable woman. i dread the day that i will have to say that in the past tense.
Wow this entry made me cry…it reminded me of my Grandmother that died when I was 10. You write so eloquently.
Great story, wil. So where’s the book? And thanks for making me focus for a few on those relationships that mean so much to us while we were growing up.
This is the “stuff” I so enjoy you writing about, Wil, more so than your political “rantings”. We all get enough of that day-to-day. It’s personal things in each of our lives that, I believe, touch us so much stronger.
Take care,