Flash

This Old House

The stone house on the farm next to ours has been abandoned since 1920. Local lore has it that John James Storey spent two years living in a tent while he quarried, hauled and fitted the stones to build that house. It is an outstanding piece of craftsmanship, rivalling the ingenuity of the pyramids. I can't imagine how John James managed without help. Of course, there might have been more to the story. Legends grow like mushrooms in the night, and people believe whatever they please.

John James had three wives and fourteen children. The first wife died in childbirth and the second ruptured her appendix. The third fell victim to the Spanish flu, along with her husband and six of the children. John James Junior was seventeen at the time. He managed to keep the family together for a couple of years, until their trustee found a buyer who made an offer on the property that was too good to refuse. The children were farmed out to relatives and friends of the family, and the house was never lived in again.

The garden went to wrack and ruin, except for the rhubarb and the irises. The new owner ran his cultivator over the garden in the hope of freeing more space for profitable crops, inadvertently spreading the iris and rhubarb over a larger domain, where they flourished with renewed vigor. After four more attempts to eradicate the irrepressible plants, he let them have their own way. By that time they covered almost an acre, and continued to multiply. Neighbours made frequent expeditions to the house to harvest rhubarb for their pies and pick irises for church services and weddings.

The house was partied in and vandalized. The interior became more and more unrecognizable, but John James Storey's field stones remained, a monument to his persistence and endurance. Three years ago, someone set a fire in the living room. It smouldered for two days. The field stones were blackened with soot. The house is a cave for swallows now. If you peek inside, you will see no partitions, no stairs, no floor – just a giant pit half-filled with rubble.

The barn was scavenged for lumber, and burned down almost fifty years ago, leaving only the stone foundation and the earthen ramp that led up to the great back doors to the haymow, chicken coops, grain bins and machine storage. After the barn was gone, I had mixed feelings about the change of scenery when I looked out of my kitchen window. I missed the familiarity of the giant structure, weathering from red to grey over the years, but at the same time its absence took the sting out of the memory of an ill-advised roll in the hay.

I surrendered my virginity in the haymow of that barn to someone who promised to show me what love really was. Heaven did not open, and I was left disappointed and nauseous, wondering what all the fuss was about. Fortunately, pregnancy did not occur, and the Great Love of the Century dissolved into disillusionment in a matter of weeks. When I confessed my indiscretion to Matt after he proposed to me, he seemed relieved. He told me that it was probably a good thing that at least one of us would know what to expect. He made up for his lack of experience with consideration, love, and enthusiasm. From time to time, I thought I heard angels singing.

It's all over now. The big auction sale is tomorrow. I'm glad that Matt was able to stay in his home until he died, but I can't manage on my own. The kids are devastated that they won't be able to gather in their childhood home for family celebrations any more, but none of them offered to take up residence in the house and keep it safe from vandals.

The nursing home where I am going is owned and operated by one of John James Storey's descendants – a great-great granddaughter, I believe. I am grateful that my window faces a green space, not the city traffic. During the day, I will enjoy watching the birds and the squirrels and the changing of the foliage with the seasons. But at night, I will dream of seeing the stone house from my kitchen window.

I wonder what will happen to my house. Will someone rent it and infuse it with laughter and love and new life? Or will it become a ruin?

Everything turns to rubble sooner or later. Only our memories are ours to keep. If we are willing to cherish them, they will become brighter and sharper and just a little more interesting as they are polished by time.