"Lakeside Review," May 19, 1982
Our house is for sale. People come through it and admire the vaulted ceilings. Some are impressed by the intercom; others take a fancy to the sprinkler system. Occasionally someone even comments on the kitchen sink. Yes, it does have a garbage disposer for gobbling up leftover peas and chicken bones.
They notice other things too--the gouge in the bathroom linoleum by the tub; the patched screen on the back storm door.
But where is the prospective buyer who can step over the squeaky board in the entry and into the flow of memories that have made this house a home? Where is the would-be owner who can look past the fingerprints on the hallway mirror and see reflections of contented living, instead?
As I guide so many browsing strangers through each room, my thoughts hold an open house that cries out for telepathic powers.
"This is the living room," I tell a man who looks as though he'd like to yawn. (Living as in lived here for six special years. This is where we've said our Happy Birthdays at least 28 times and vacuumed up the crumbs from each decorated cake. We scrubbed blood from the carpet there when Jennifer broke her nose, and here we knelt in prayer for Stacee, when she was struck by a car.)
"This next room would be the dining room. As you see, we haven't got that kind of furniture." (But listen: you can hear the songs we've sung around the piano. The kids all have their favorites; Matthew always asks for Come from Alabama with a Band-Aid on my Knee.)
I resist the urge to ask my daughter to play a piece or two, and we move on into the kitchen.
"These countertops are new," I tell the lady who pops her gum and opens a cupboard door. (Can't you feel the warmth that emanates from this homely, chrome table where we share our meals and talk about our joys and sorrows? Can't you smell the dozens of cookies that we've baked in this oven? That dent on the wall near the highchair is where each of the six babies has banged his cup and spoon.)
"The next room, a bedroom, is where two of our daughters dream." (Pink gingham and giggles...bedtime stories and goodnight kisses. Yes, the light's burned out again. They don't like me to turn it off at night.")
"Down the hall, on your right," is the bathroom." (There never was room for a potty chair in there, but, somehow, we managed...)
We move along to the master bedroom. (I saved my coupon refunds to buy that wallpaper. Heavily flocked, it slithered off the walls the first time I tried hanging it. Finally, someone told me about de-glossing and sizing the old enamel paint. Yes, there is room for a baby's cradle on one side of the bed. Our first son, Michael, was almost born in the room. The paramedics came and took me to the hospital, but somehow, it always seemed different in here after that.)
"Last of all we have the family room." (Luckily for us, it was made so large. See how neatly Mike and Matt's bunkbeds fit in the corner here. Each of our children has at one time slept in that crib there. And we still have room for the couch, TV, recliner, my writing desk, and a bookcase. Yes, the fireplace has a gas log, but we can still burn wood. And if you look behind the grate, you'll probably find popcorn kernels and wrinkled scraps of Monopoly money.)
There's an exterior door on that wall. (But before you open it and step outside to inspect the yard, listen--listen very carefully, for there's laughter in the rafters and a heartbeat in this house.)
