Monday, I drove down to Fort Erie, Ontario to sign over the deed to the
family beach house near Ridgeway. I
believe my grandfather bought that place in the late 1920s or early 1930s, and it had been in our
family ever since. My mom and her brother Harry Jr. spent their childhood summers
there, as did my sister and I. By the time Mom and Dad were too infirmed to
spend their summers there (it is a short commute from Buffalo), neither my sister
nor I was living close enough to spend any significant time there. While Mom
was alive, I did not have the heart to sell the place, although that would
have been the sensible thing to do. Even though for the last few years of her
life Mom was suffering from severe dementia, she still asked about the beach
house constantly. Did the landscaper come to plant the flower garden? Did I remember
that the storm windows are stored in the garage? Don’t forget to run the
washing machine once through with nothing in it, so the rust can clear from the
water pipes. Of course, I did not have the heart to tell her we were renting
the place to strangers. I loved that house almost as much as she did, and I did
not know how to let go.
Finally, I had to, so I drove down to visit the place one last time, with
a trailer in tow to bring back some of the furniture and the other mementos that
reminded me of my family. I knew it would be an emotional trip, but as I walked
through the house, it suddenly hit me like a brick: this was it. This was perhaps
the last time I would ever set foot in this wonderful home, which had for such
a long time been a unifying force in my family. A thousand happy memories washed
over me like a tidal wave as I looked out the windows, opened cabinet doors and
pulled out drawers, trying to make sure I did not leave anything important behind
. There were childhood memories of boating and waterskiing, dinner parties full
of laughter with friends and family, bonfires and marshmallow roasts, the fond recollections
of time spent with four generations of my family. My friend Bob, with whom I'd shared many of those memories, came over
Monday night to offer me some moral support. Otherwise, I probably would have fallen
apart. So many memories.
For instance, I remember when my sister got married in 1971, the ushers party was held
at that summer house, and that the first wild party I ever attended. My cousin
Paul and I were only about thirteen or fourteen at the time and we got very
drunk. At some point during that Bacchanalian evening, Paul’s mom called from
Buffalo asking to speak with Paul. A very drunk girl answered the phone, with
loud music in the background, and fifty or sixty people yelling at the top of
their lungs, and she slurred, “I dunno, describe him!” I woke up the next morning in a reclining
chair- the morning of my sister’s wedding - with a terrific hangover, naked
except for the beach towel draped over my waist. Someone was shaking me awake to
remind me that I had to be an usher in the wedding in about an hour. The place
looked like the aftermath of a frat party.
During my search, I opened a broom closet in the kitchen, where we kept
all the keys to the house, and underneath the key rack was a list in my father’s
distinctive handwriting, describing what each key was for. That made me smile and I kept the note. Every corner of that
house, every knick knack, ever pot and pan, was somehow a memory. How fortunate
I was to have had that kind of a charmed childhood! I pulled out the bottom
drawer in the linen closet and found a bunch of small, framed watercolor
paintings, about eight in all. I recognized them as in my mother’s style, and
sure enough, she’d painted them. Her initials were at the bottom of each
painting. I’d never seen these pictures before, and they would have been painted
when mom was a very young woman, probably before she became a professional artist. I’m glad I found those.
I’ll miss the old beach house, but the time has come to move on. Next week
I will usher in my 60th year, and more and more I find
myself forced to let go of people and things that were dear to me. I don’t want to, but dwelling on the
loss just makes me sad. I struggle not to
live in the past, and I do not want to fall out if step with the march of time,
much as it is sometimes a challenge to keep pace. To get stuck is to miss out on
all the surprises life still has in store for me. To live in the present, in
the moment, is something I am still trying to figure out how to do, but I think it is a
worthy pursuit. I feel blessed to have had so many good experiences so far, and
so much love in my life to guide me along the way. I cannot bring back those
who have left me, and I cannot hold on to real estate and chattel that reminds
me of them, but I can be thankful for all I have been given. Perhaps I can even
spread a little of that love to others. As they say “you can’t take it with you”
but one should enjoy it while it’s here! My mom is present in every brush stroke she painted,
and in the home she created for us all. My Dad is alive in every brilliant, illegible
word he wrote. I feel confident that there are many happy memories still to
come. Tuesday, I closed one door for the last time, but there are many more to
open.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer
c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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