My Old House

My dear friend Sheri loves to go to New Home Shows. You know the scene: a developer or charity takes over a house and shows you how to have a home that makes your friends feel like crap when they come over. A full in-home gym, a home theater with actual movie seats and a 108-inch flat-screen TV, six bathrooms, and an indoor kitchen with a Sub-Zero. I’m talking about the heart of the woman who lives there, not the appliance.

I never go to New Home Shows. I go to Old Home Shows. My old homes.

Next month I am going to another Old Home Show with my girlfriend Kristen. Or as my friends will call her - my next nostalgia victim.

It all started about ten years ago when I had a dad-daughter vacation in New York City with Landon who was nine years old at the time. We saw the Empire State Building, FAO Schwartz and ate in a cool restaurant in Little Italy. She asked me where I lived when I was her age, and I told her about an hour and a half away.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         The next day we were pulling off I-95 to drive down the main street of Old Lyme, Connecticut. My family lived there for only three years, but it was a tumultuous time. We lost everything we owned in a bad restaurant investment and ended up living in an old converted one-room schoolhouse that came with the restaurant. It was located right across the street on what was called the Shore Road, a blissful stretch of highway that brought nothing but misery to my family.

As Landon and I drew closer to the scene of my father’s financial ruin, I got a queasy feeling. Why was I choosing to show her this particular house out of all the places we lived? Why not the nicer houses, with memories associated with happier times?  I hadn’t set foot in this town for fifteen years. I hated this place more than Dick Cheney hates the New York Times. I still remember the day we were evicted, and the sheriff knocking on the door asking if I knew where some of the plates and all of the liquor bottles were.

We came around the corner, and I knew at the crest of the hill was the Alamo of my childhood security…. “Schlosser’s Countryside by the Sea,” the absolute worst name I have ever heard for a restaurant. “The Rancid Clam” would have been better. “Bob’s Crap on a Bun” would have been better.

“It’s right at the top of this hill, Landon,” I said in a voice that was a mix of excitement and dread.  I pulled into the parking lot and there it was. Actually there it wasn’t. The restaurant was gone. I got out of the car held Landon in my arms.  She had no shoes on and there were nails and rocks all over the lot. Either the place burned down or it was razed. There is an old restaurant joke about two partners, Manny and Sal.

Manny: “Sal, we only had two customers Monday.”
Sal: “Yeah.”
Manny: “And only one customer Tuesday.”
Sal: “Yeah.”
Manny: “Think it will go?”
Sal: “It should. It’s made of wood.”

I felt an odd disappointment that I couldn’t stare that old dump in the eye one more time and spit contempt at it. Then I realized how perfect the moment was. I had built a successful life in Charlotte, a new and beautiful city. I was doing what I loved, and I was holding a beautiful child who would not have to wash dishes, clean lobsters, sweep floors, and lie to a sheriff. We needed those plates. The nasty past was burned to the ground and I was holding my future.

“Where is your house daddy?” asked Landon.

I swung around and said “Across the street, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it’s pretty.” Landon said.

And it was. Someone had restored the little place and planted some colorful flowers throughout the front yard.

“Where was your room daddy?”

“On the right, Landon. Really, it was a closet that we used as my room. The house only had one bedroom and my mom and dad had that.”
Landon asked if she could sleep in her closet. I hugged her and said yes.

Over the next few years I would return to Connecticut now and then to visit friends, and drive by one or more of the houses I used to live in.

I was even invited into two of them by friendly people who happened to be working outside at the time of my drive-by. It was fascinating to see the house with the sunny little living room my grandmother held me in as a baby. The house where my birthday party with the pony was held. The house where the police came to demand my rock band stop practicing at two a.m.

My kids have all been on “Dad’s Old Home Tours,” and have slowly found much more stimulating things to do with their friends. I can’t blame them. They did their time, and got a feeling for my past.  Last year I took the tour alone for one day, and then picked up my friend Geoff and we drove to see the Red Sox play at Fenway. Every year that I go, I say it will be my last. I pronounce I am done searching the pentimento of a strange youth spent, but I know that is a lie.

Kristen is in my life now, and there are seafood joints to be introduced, rocky beaches to be walked, and old houses to be checked on.

This July we are staying for a night at the Old Lyme Inn, a charming spot in one of the most picturesque villages in all of New England. I can’t wait to show her the Revolutionary era buildings I used to race my bike by, to savor the cherrystone clams, and to listen for the voice of my father’s ghost telling me to pull a crate of lobsters out of the walk-in freezer.

Comments

[Nancy]

oh, Bob, that is so sweet.

[Cathy]

I enjoyed reading your blog. My husband and I both have lived in Charlotte our entire lives and recently drove through the old neighborhoods of our past. I lived in a middle class neighborhood in the same house my entire youth until I met and married my husband 28 years ago. He lived in numerous houses in the North Charlotte area. We found the journey bittersweet as we remembered where friends lived and who is doing what these days. My husband has come a long way since then and ownes a very successful business. We live in a large house in the "suburbs". But we never forget where we came from. Our child will never know the adult worries and responsibilites we endured as children ourselves. Thank God!!!!

[Cris]

Bob, I, too, take friends and younger relatives past the house where I was raised. It was a very small, run down house, so I know how you must have felt.

[Bobbie*]

It is those experiences in our lives that are bad or sad that help us appreciate the good or happy ones :o)

[A Week In The Life of A Redhead]

Somehow I missed reading this post and laughed out loud in the library at "and an indoor kitchen with a Sub-Zero. I’m talking about the heart of the woman who lives there, not the appliance" My son gave me the "you are embarassing me" look and I am still chuckling. Thanks for the great laugh ... I needed it today.
Catherine, the redhead

[Elise Workman]

Bob, I don't know anything about you except I listened to you & Sheri for what seems like many years before the SPLIT. Gigi must be crying in her own tears to lose such a good man. I hope that you find a world of happiness out there. It appeared to me that in the beginning it was Country Clubs, and who knows who. It must have been her, because you don't seem to be that person anymore. Good luck with the NEW BOB and I am aware that it has been a couple of years since all of this took place. Please don't allow yourself to fall back into that shallow pattern. You're the greatest. Elise

[Melissa]

Hi Bob -
Something made me think of you and your kids tonight, so I googled you and found your blog. The description of your trip with Ally to the house where she was born made me very nostalgic. I was her babysitter (and you and Gigi were my friends and role models), and I have vivid memories of watching Ally and Landon grow and discover the world around them. I am now 33, and my husband and I are raising a baby of our own. Jonah is 9 months old. It is truly an amazing journey! You all gave me good training all those years ago!
I was very happy to see pictures of your beautiful kids. I know how proud you must be! -Melissa

[adahpotato]

My Mom is a nostalgia junkie as well, and would often 'detour' past old homes. We always groaned in protest...but oddly enough now that I have my own children I do the same thing. Incidentally my sister once had a closet as a bedroom too:)

[Wanda]

Bob I understand your pain over your daughter leaving. Yes it is hard to have them away from you, but that is part of the growing process we have to endure. But the time together when she is back will be very enjoyable.