Of Yarn & Storytelling

For Whom the Doorbell Tolls

For those of us who were there, it was a day none of us wanted to face. It was the last day that our family had ownership of the house my grandparents lived in for over 50 years. It was the house my mom grew up in and continued to visit consistently throughout her adult life. It was the house my siblings and I visited so often it was as familiar and comfortable to us as our own home. Many summer picnics, holidays and small family gatherings when out of town relatives came to visit all happened there. We knew on that day, when the rental moving truck was stoically parked in the driveway ready to take away within a matter of hours the concrete memories that were made over decades, there would be an undeniable end to an era in our family.

Almost a year and a half ago my grandfather, who all of us in the family affectionately called Pop-pop, lost his battle with cancer. He was from the old school, born and raised in Brooklyn, NY by Italian immigrant parents during the Great Depression. He enlisted in the US Army and served during World War II. He met my grandmother while stationed in the Philippines and took care of her all his life until his body wouldn’t allow him to any longer. He was a paradox of father and grandfather. His children described him as tough, strict and even mean when they were growing up. As his granddaughter, I knew him as funny, a great story teller and the best cook I have ever known.

After Pop-pop died, Nana lost interest in life. Her happiness was pinned securely to the man she loved for over 60 years. Her lackluster showed not only in her actions but her entire being. I saw firsthand that two humans can truly be one and when one of them is gone, it is similar to a butterfly that has lost one of its wings. Although well cared for, the life in her dwindled away as her sadness turned into depression which eventually claimed her.

In earlier and happier times, my mom would bring us frequently to their split level house painted in Federal Blue. It was such a treat as a kid to race up the front steps and ring the doorbell. When we were young, Nana was the one who always answered the door. Smiles met with smiles followed by hugs. She dearly loved us all but the youngest of the lot was always her favorite. In this way, we were all her favorites at one time. This affection was carried forward when as adults we started to bring her great grandchildren for a visit. At this point in time, she was too weak and frail so Pop-pop would make the trip up the stairs from the den if he wasn’t cooking something in the kitchen.

The ringing of that doorbell had evolved over time into a different expectation on either side of the door. For us, we awaited the voluptuous smell of a concoction Pop-pop was in the midst of creating on the stove or in the oven. Perhaps he didn’t know who was on the other side of the door but he hoped they came with a good appetite. His happiness didn’t always stem from the same source that Nana’s did when seeing us on their doorstep but it was very apparent that he got great enjoyment in tantalizing our taste buds and filling our stomachs. We knew we hit the jackpot when we would walk over the threshold as he casually said over his shoulder he had spaghetti or pot roast. Actually, he appeared to be casual but he certainly had one eye trained on us to see our excitement.

On that last day at my grandparent’s house, I walked in and much of the familiar furniture that made that house theirs was gone. The large bookshelf that held framed photos of my cousins taken almost two decades ago and albums of Dean Martin was given away. The over-sized dining room table on which so many birthday cakes had graced upon it while the little ones played under it, had met the fate of being sold to a total stranger. The house now seemed incredibly small even though most of its contents had been taken out.

We began to remove the last pieces of furniture. I keenly focused on the work at hand instead of the fact that it was close to sacrilege that I was removing the master bedroom furniture that had been there my entire life. I watched as my brothers and uncle moved the heavy pieces into the truck. I felt that buoyant feeling one gets when accomplishing a task and seeing the end result. In my ephemeral confidence, I flippantly rang the doorbell and then something most unexpectedly happened. A tidal wave of profound sadness washed over me and soaked me to the bones.

Within seconds the forgotten moments that happened decades ago, that only Nana had dearly held onto until her very last breath, now pierced my heart with a massive sense of loss. I thought of how many times I rang that bell in my life and the constant was that Pop-pop or Nana would always be there to answer that door and I would feel right at home. For the first time since their deaths, I realized that I would never experience those warm feelings again. The comfort in knowing they were always there vanished.

I bit my lower lip hard to keep my emotions in check so no one would see how vulnerable I was in my sadness but remembering my grandparents’ enduring love that I was fortunate to have experienced over my entire my life was too much for me to resist. I stood in the upper hallway smelling the familiar smells of soap, the now shabby linens that as a child had slept on and the dust that was probably resident there for half my life. It was on that day of recognizing the actual loss that I refused to acknowledge previously, I mourned my grandparents with tears streaming down my cheeks and an ache in my chest. My mom found me immobilized in my cocoon of sorrow and wrapped her arms around me, quietly knowing full well why I was crying. I finally met her in the sadness of acknowledging the loss of loved ones that were historically steadfast figures in our lives.

As we loaded up the final pieces into the truck and I walked for the last time through the front door of the Federal Blue house, I realized what we had actually done on that day. This house, which had been such a large part of four generations in my family, had been a time capsule and we had dismantled it. Now that the owners of that house were no longer alive, the memories they had of us were no longer treasured as they had been so carefully remembered over all those years.

Today in an age where many things are disposable, even relationships, this recent experience affected me enough to pause and reconsider how I live every day, what I spend my time on and most importantly how I treat others. The love felt when one is treasured by another should never been taken for granted or even be expected with a sense of entitlement. What is consistently here today may not be here tomorrow and if there is someone you love, treasure them every day as if tomorrow was the end of time.