Houses In Motion

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”

  1. Hey there uh Johnny boy… Sorry that it was a slow night for probin’ porn in your mommy’s house. Speaking of, did you ever get around to getting off your fat lazy worthless ass and dump that garbage like mommy asked you to?!?
    Just curious.
    Anyhoo, I guess we all getta see what interesting neat comments you’ll toss our way next. Putz! Serioulsy, take the gun barrel out of your mouth long enough to look in the mirror and say, “Wow. I really am a true blue loser boy that has nothing better to do than to act like a complete creep.”
    Hmmm… better get back to your surfin’.
    Careful of hand cramps and don’t get the KrispyCremes gunk on your mouse/keyboard — if you can tell it apart from the other sticky materials…
    buh-bye (for now).
    -McLean Stevenson

  2. Wil, your words are so powerful. You words fill my mind with images, and memories of my own. Your words touched me, and made me cry. You are an awesome writer! Only a true writer can turn words into pictures and emotions like that! Thank you for sharing.

  3. Wil,
    My Great Uncle died 12 days ago after a battle with cancer. I e-mailed this story to all my family members. It hit home, it’s like that. And I will miss Captain Dave forever, he’s gone, and I miss him – I’ll always miss him. Your words were very comforting and rang true in my heart.
    Thanks.

  4. Wil, with all these vivid thoughts and emotions, and how you word them.. well man, I think you should write a book, no really! at least get your thoughts down on paper.

  5. I know it’s a bit late to comment, but I’m playing catch-up.
    Your post reminded me of my grandmothers house, and I mentally toured her house as you toured your aunt’s.
    For some reason, whenever I said I was hungry, she’d offer me some cheese like it was candy, and I’d eagerly nod. Cheese never tasted like that anywhere else…

  6. I found this from the ‘big announcement’ post. It’s so weird, I wasn’t even reading your blog last year, but it feels like I know you so well! I think everybody feels like that.
    My grandparents had a cereal cabinet too, in Birmingham (England). We’d turn up in the afternoon and I’d look longingly at the mini-cereal packets, and reserve myself one for the next day with my brother, who wasn’t always so happy about it. It was always a race for everything. Breakfast was the best time of day up there, because I’d go downstairs and sit at the table, kneeling on the chair because I didn’t like the way my feet dangled, having pleasantly forgotten about the cereal. Finding out was the best thing in the world. I was bitterly upset when my brother got the coco pops, though, or the frosties. I was a difficult child though. Constantly having tantrums. My grandmother was in charge of the cereal cabinet. It was strange when she died because I didn’t remember all that much about her. But every once in a while, I come across memories that I’d forgotten I had, like how we used to play board games with my grandma with names like “Ho Ho Ho (And A Bottle Of Rum)” or the epic Monopoly games she was so good at, or the one-footed rollerskating on the carpet with Elaine, or the breathing on the cold windows and writing my name in the little diamond shapes. Your post helped me to get those back, Wil- thankyou. It’s like bringing my grandma and that house back to life again.
    And kud0s on the book deal. What really makes me think about what I want to do with my life is reading about people like you. ^_^
    Joanie

  7. Wil, my keyboard’s crusting up. I’ve only just seen this entry tonight, but you wrote it almost a year ago today.
    I can really tell how much you love your Aunt Val just by reading this post. Note that I said ‘love’ not ‘loved’, because a lot of people make it sound like when someone dies, you stop loving them, and that’s not true.
    Thanks for reminding me of how valuable life is.
    Margot

  8. I too got to this post from the “Big Announcement” post, which I linked to from Fark, and I must say, you have an excellent career ahead of you as a writer, and I admire your success as a human.
    I too had to bid farewell to such a beloved house, and later, my Grandmother, of whom your description of Aunt Val reminds me. I feel for your loss, as I understand it keenly, and I hope we can succeed in finding places like that for our children to remember.
    Keep writing, Wil. You’re an impressive dude, and I hope to meet you and work with you some day (aspirations of film making rumbling in background).
    Write well,
    Gary

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