How do you begin to say goodbye to a home you’ve known for a
quarter of a century? Save the farmhouse I grew up in from the time I was
nearly three until I was 14, this is the longest I have ever lived in any one
place. This was home for me, my husband, for all three of our children, and a
second home to my mother during the last several years of her life, because if
the truth be told, her first home for many years was the open road.
I know 25 years of stories about the trees in our neighborhood.
I know which ones fell in Hurricane Andrew and which ones grew back from their
stumps; which ones weathered Hurricane Wilma, and of course, which ones gave it
up to Wilma, including the large banyan that took up most of our backyard. I chose this house for that banyan. I wanted
to put roots in deep somewhere, tired of having moved eight times in less than
five years at that time, and when I saw the banyan and considered its size and
strength, it seemed the perfect metaphor for longevity. How was I to know then
that banyans look massive and while the root structure is invasive and can grow
to exceed their canopies breaking apart foundations and infiltrating water pipes,
their roots are shallow? Anyway, I took one look at the tree and said “this is
the house for me.” No matter that the house didn’t really fit us—didn’t fit our
needs at the time—but we fit the house. And for 16 years we had the banyan to
consider, too.
Well, this is how I am saying goodbye: a little bit each day.
I take the three dogs with me on our usual morning walks, sojourns around the
neighborhood that is in the process, as my friend Amy says, of “becoming gentrified,”
and I speak to the trees, animals, and neighbors still existing, as well as
those that are already gone. Today I stopped and looked at what was the O’Brient’s
homestead, a single story ranch replaced a few years ago by a massive two-story
house and occupied since last fall by a muscular anesthesiologist and his
family. I can see the new house, of course, but also the old one as it ghosts
its way into my thoughts so instead of the fine paver driveway, I can see the
old shell one that preceded it. After Mrs. O’Brient died, sometimes Mr. O.
would sit in his station wagon and listen to baseball games. I worried at first
that he’d be overcome by heat, sitting in the car, but they had a massive
banyan of their own that filled their front yard and shaded the driveway. The
tree is still there, still beautiful, trimmed perfectly and surrounded by lush
ferns that uncurl their knuckles just enough to brush the swaying tendrils of
roots dangling from the tree. As I stood there looking at the past this
morning, the doctor came out and waved. I said good-bye to Mr. O’Brient and
waved and told the doctor he has the best looking mailbox in the neighborhood.
(It’s a white wooden bull terrier that looks just like his real bull terrier.)
The dogs think I’m being too emotional about it all. Texas Pete
actually accused me last week of blatant nostalgia. He reminded me that just because
our home is going to be knocked down soon, it doesn’t mean something meaningful
to someone else won’t spring up to take its place. He suggested that I let someone else enjoy the
mahogany-lined street of Broad Court for the next 25 years. But Scruffy, who
understands me the best, said I should just say good-bye to one thing a day,
which will allow me to have room to say hello to someone new in San Carlos Park.
(He’s a Shih-tzu and exudes a calm and sensible philosophy.) So today, it’s so long to certain neighbors of the past
with a grateful nod to the tree that lives on after them.
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