(originally published on an old blog several years ago)

The house is gone … just found out this week that it has been torn down.  The house hasn’t been in the family for four decades, but occasional trips back to the old hill indicated a sadly serious case of neglect by subsequent owners.  So, the news was not exactly unexpected, but still a shock when you first hear the words.  There’s a quietly regrettable sadness that I can never go back and a low-key emptiness, a hole so to speak, in the first two decades of my life history.  The timing of this news, coupled with yet another birthday reminding me that more than half my life is behind me, makes me wax all the more nostalgic.

The small house, which at times seemed so much larger to a small child, would never make the local community house tour listing or the cover shot of a major interior decorating magazine.  The trademark 1950’s style floral wallpaper with coordinating window coverings were most likely bought at the local five and dime or community hardware store.  Humble furnishings were added as a limited budget permitted — cash, as available, not credit cards, governed what and when this immigrant family purchased.  Family portraits, nick knacks and signs of faith provided the accessories that broadcast the character of the occupants.

But, now, the house is gone.  Gone are the few, small kitchen steps that, somehow, beyond belief, held a number of generations of kids, eating, playing and happily singing while observing the innumerable festive celebrations from the most advantageous viewing spot.  It was like having seats right on the field during a baseball game — you were part of the action.  The house didn’t have a “family” room, “game” room or parlor for entertaining.  The kitchen served as all three, with spillover crowds meandering to the little “living” room at the top of the steps.

Those same steps provided the prime spot for a very talkative little girl who tried so hard to patiently and “quietly” sit for endless hours during traditional nut bread baking days.  The Croatian tradition was a day long event — Grandma, mom and aunts busily, methodically mixing, kneading, baking, cooling and packing in a harmonious system that large-scale factories would envy.  A very clever Grandma promised to reward the little girl for her patience and good behavior with her very own mini loaf of bread. 

Gone is the porch which served as the outdoor entertainment center of the house during the warmer days of spring, summer and fall.  The long, narrow, covered extension of the house somehow managed to accommodate a crowd which would certainly violate modern-day occupancy limits for such a structure. It was filled with gliders, chairs and a swing that nearly gave a Grandmother a heart attack when kids swung out too high and over the railing overlooking a drop off that tickled the pit of your stomach and made you delightfully dizzy.

Gone is the house, as well as too many of the people who gathered there and shared decades of laughter and tears and the love and security of being surrounded by loved ones.  Gone is the house, but not the memories that are filed in the mind or the tons of pictures taken in the crowded kitchen, the porch or in front of the garbage can that help to preserve those memories.  

Grandma’s house is gone, but not the essence of a love that continues to nourish generations who never set foot in the house or knew the original occupants.

Peace,
Kathy Marie

It was a stick. His broad smile clearly indicated his satisfaction as he proudly proclaimed he got it at such a bargain price. It looked like a stick — a dead stick poking out of a small round burlap sack filled with soil. It was supposed to be the maple tree he had been wanting for quite some time and he got it dirt cheap. Life couldn’t be better. Laughing, his daughter said, “Dad, you paid for a dead stick!” Undaunted by the laughter and teasing from his daughter and wife, he carefully planted it in the front yard and lovingly protected and nurtured it, always confident it would blossom into the maple tree of his dreams. His daughter continued to laugh because, to her, it was still a dead stick!

Forty some years later, that dead stick has branched out in many directions, provides shade for a portion of the house, serves as home to flocks of birds and a playground for squirrels, and has been carefully pruned and trimmed away from utility lines on numerous occasions. It has survived the weight of winter snows and ice storms, exceptionally high winds and gas leaks in close proximity to its roots. It has outlived the person whose loving hands planted it and serves as a sweet reminder of the gentle man who was happiest in his yard, planting a vegetable garden, observing and feeding the birds, training a wild squirrel to take food from his hand and rescuing a baby bunny whose nest was raided by a predator cat and feeding it from a tiny baby doll bottle until it was strong enough to release back into nature. It remains “Pete’s Tree” and anyone who does any yard work near it or prunes or trims it, hears the story of its beginnings, how special it is and woe to them if any harm comes to it while under their care.

Pete departed this earth 13 years ago, passing on June 10th, buried on June 14th (Flag Day — appropriate for a WWII vet who served under Patton). Father’s Day followed four days later and all the emotion and exhaustion of the difficult last 6 months of his life caught up with his daughter. She wanted nothing to do with Father’s Day in any way, but, in the end, found some peace in the day when she brought St. Francis home to live under Pete’s tree. St. Francis is known as a patron saint of animals and is often pictured with birds on his shoulder, in his hand or at his feet. Pete, as mentioned earlier, loved nature and animals, but he was most devoted to birds.

He owned numerous bird houses and feeders over the years and could sit for hours watching them go about life in his yard, disappointed when the wrens skipped a season or two using the house he had built for them to nest and bring their babies into the world. He delighted in sharing his knowledge of each species, with hummingbirds, cardinals and sparrows (sputsys) among his favorites. He was devoted as anyone to feeding them during winter months and developed a meticulous system of filling the feeders with what he had determined were their favorite variety of seeds. His daughter got a kick out of his routine, and, in later years, as his health deteriorated, became his assistant. Trips to the feed store were dispatched with specific instructions as to what seeds to buy, how many bags of each, etc. NO simple one bag of a commercial mixture for Pete’s birds! Like a gourmet chef at his best, Pete bought only the finest of their favorites, carefully layering each individual seed variety in order of favorability. It was a long process during which his elderly selective hearing loss totally ignored his daughter’s expression of impatience and comments as to the birds pickiness and the lecture they should be grateful they have something to eat! He then spent the next several hours waging war against the squirrels who raided the feeders and destroyed his masterpiece presentation. It should be noted that, for several winters after his passing, his once impatient daughter bought separate bags of seed and meticulously arranged them layer by layer just as her dad had done for all those years. For a brief time, she also fought the raiding squirrels, but eventually surrendered in a battle she knew she could never win. The birds survived just fine eating what the squirrels spilled all over the ground.

He was named after St. Peter, rock of the church and keeper of the keys to the gates of Heaven, but he could have easily worn the name of Francis as well. So, on that first Father’s Day without him, his daughter set out on a mission to find St. Francis and bring him home to live under Pete’s tree. Visits to just about every garden or statuary center in this neck of the woods met with disappointment. Though plenty of statues to choose from, they all seemed cold and lifeless, made out of some dull grey concrete-like substance. All of these St. Francis looked much too serious and were pitifully scrawny. He looked –well, like a statue — no personality whatsoever. Finally, in the last section of the last garden center stood THE PERFECT St. Francis, the last one in stock! — colorful, a tad plump and if one looked closely, the slightest hint of a mischievous smile. He looked human– he looked warm and gentle holding a small dish for feed with a simple bird at the dish and one at his foot — he had personality!

Much too heavy for his wife and daughter to unload, neighbors came to the rescue putting him in his new place of honor, residing under Pete’s tree. For 13 years, Francis has brought us joy. For 13 years, our neighbors have shared a seasonal ritual bringing him indoors for the winter months and taking him back to the tree just in time for spring blossoms, baby bird births and earth’s renewal. Each morning, Francis and the tree greet us as we look out the window and gives us a sense of peace as we say goodnight. And, somewhere in Heaven, I suspect a guy named Pete takes a break from preparing the next day’s meal for God’s birds and smiles down and says goodnight as well.

Peace,
Kathy Marie