----------------------------
The
Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter
13/ Bad Days.
Part
3 (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
----------------------------
Like
everyone else, I’ve received terrible news on occasion. Sometimes, it doesn’t
feel like anyone else has ever heard the same dark, sad thing.
My
childhood home was demolished by the city a few years ago. My family
accidentally found out it was going to happen. Three and a half years before it
did, we happened to be told by someone who knew someone in the city offices
that the plans were being developed to demolish a few blocks.
We
all knew the house was not the “home,” the family made it home. We all knew, in
our heads that it was the people—but it didn’t change the fact we were all
mourning.
The
city decided to widen the street, to beautify the area, by adding a median to
the middle of the road. (I think it was their excuse to tear down a lot of worn
out buildings.) And for one mile from downtown to the highway access there were
eleven businesses and about the same number of houses that were leveled. As the
main highway entrance from the north, the city wanted to beautify that “gateway.”
And then the purchasing began, one block at a time would see orange cones and
ripped out sidewalks. Over the course of three years we watched the chaos
slowly approach. Finally the day arrived when they bought the old house and
relocated my parents. I cried. My dad was angry. My mom didn’t know what to do
with either of us.
It
wasn’t fancy, but it was ours. It had been remodeled over time to be exactly
what they wanted to live in. A huge kitchen with lots of seating and
customizations those were unique. My friends found it to be a safe place to come;
some loved it as much as we did and were sad to hear the news. My father
purchased it when he was quite young, before he met my mom. He lived there for
quite some time, rented it out at one point, and then after a series of events
my parents were married and then moved there. He owned the house for nearly
fifty years; they lived there for more than thirty five. There was a half
century of history on that land and within those walls.
It
was also good there was three and a half years warning because it took that
long to go through thirty five years of stuff. It also made the mourning phase
extremely long and exhausting.
The
city hired movers to pack the house and then haul everything to the new house.
I spent two days with my mom and dad and the moving guys.
There
was this relentless little man who was five feet tall, with long red frizzy
hair--and he was missing one of his front teeth. For his stature, he had an
abnormally deep and raspy voice. He decided I was the most fascinating person
he’d ever met and actually told me this. I was a bit startled by the middle of
the first day when he would announce his fascination and then began asking all
the other movers to get my phone number—but he never asked. Not surprisingly,
they ignored him. He kept saying, “Get’er number! Get’er number!” Often
followed by, “You guys have heavy sh*t!” It, at least, made a sad occasion
entertaining. And in a whirlwind of frizzy red hair and sweat covered tee
shirts the house was empty.
I
walked through it slowly and took photos of all the rooms. I never imagined I
would see it empty. It was like being in a different dimension.
I
lived there from the time I was six months old until college, and then rented
the apartment over the house for a couple years. I moved back later because my
apartment had been robbed and I didn’t want to stay in there any longer.
I
rented an apartment on Dousman Street in an old building that my parents owned.
They never had any tenants get robbed until I lived there, of course. It was a
great place with a huge living room, kitchen and just one bedroom. It was one
of those buildings built when the river was the only real transportation and
the people settled with large plots of land and built big houses. It had an
iron fireplace with tile around it that was the color of jade. There was also
all this ornate woodwork, leaded glass and big windows. My parents recently
sold the building.
I
liked it there but the last few months I felt like I was being watched, for no
good reason—I had no proof. I found myself closing blinds earlier and earlier
and double checking locks.
One
evening my mom and sister talked me into going to a Pampered Chef party. I had
decided not to go but changed my mind when they asked again. We took our time
there and when I returned home, just like normal, I unlocked the door and went
in. Things were off.
I
noticed hanging cords, then I saw that the stereo was gone, I walked over and
all my papers were on the floor—someone opened the coffee table! My printer was
gone. Anything small and electronic was gone! I went into my bedroom and my
under garments were all over the floor, someone had rummaged through all of
them! WHY?! Looking for cash? And then my jewelry—almost all of it was gone.
I
had a small piece of jewelry marking almost every significant happening in life
and it was all gone. My mom gave me her high school class ring when I lost
mine, they even took that.
I
looked down the hallway and the door was open to the basement. As I got a
little closer I realized the entire doorjamb was broken out. They kicked in the
door from the basement stairs and the deadbolt ripped the wood frame apart. I
began shaking, that was more than I could handle. It was still daylight, thank
goodness. When it fully occurred to me what had happened, I picked up the phone
and dialed 911. The dispatcher was patient and helpful. She told me to go lock
myself in my car until officers arrived.
They
came, walked up the porch steps and inside, hands on their guns. (Guns!) They looked
through the whole apartment and basement and then came out to see me.
They
took down a list of everything I could remember that was stolen. I asked them
to fingerprint the cabinet door and they declined saying it wouldn’t help. I
regret not pushing for that. They were kind and helpful. It was all gone and I
could do nothing about it.
----------------------------
Just
like the altars they built in the Bible’s Old Testament, which marked the place
of something blessed, significant and special--that place, the old house, held
altars. We took those significant memories with us and now my parent’s new
house feels just like the old house did.
There
is a pain that settles deep when others take what doesn’t belong to them though.
IF we can realize that it never had to do with us, the personal us they never
cared to know—and we can understand that those who take see cash dollars and
cents we can begin to heal.
When
I realized they took “a house” not my home, and they took “some gold” not my
gifts marking special memories, that it was never about hurting me personally,
then I could feel safe again.
