The Old House is Such a Spiritual Place.

Selling the family home these days is commonplace for many families as so many people change jobs and relocate across the country more often than in the past, but some old homes remain in the family for generations and such is the case of the family home at 276 Nantasket Ave in Hull, MA.

And as for 276, I understand 'striking while the iron is hot' and selling it in its currently maintained state, before a major problem develops that the family can ill afford to fix down the road. I've visited the house several times and have fond memories of it as well, especially my hours within it, in 2015, before my sea legs disappeared from our sail trip with Jerry across the Gulf of Maine, and its grand stair steps would rise up to meet my feet and its shower walls were anchor points as it was luffing up in my mind--and I was laughing because it was such a weird experience.

The old house is such a spiritual place in anyone of the family's sense. All the kids and adults, and friends of the family as am I, fill up with it just stepping across its threshold as the memories flood in. The young still leap from Grandpa Joe's sailboat in a swim race to shore; Nanna still putters about her little kitchen making sammies for guests and a hundred kids; laughter and music is heard in every room of the great old house; someone quietly reads in a chair on the porch overlooking Hingham Bay; Mark repairs some window sill, door hinge, sailboat part, bathroom tile patch, plumbing leak; The garage door open, neighbors stop by to drink a beer in the basement; Someone rows the dingy out to the Navho for an evening sail; and a million other memories will return on the waves along the shore there.

Sad to see it go.

Comments

Joe - Wednesday's Child said…

I can just see those windows - 20, 30, 40 years from now - still looking down the road for WannaskaWriter and Ned's father to pay another visit and make another memory.

June 22, 2019 at 6:13 AM

1972 An August Adventure: Stormy Lake, Snake Bay, Ontario

My 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser A life changing event. I've had asthma all my life and it limited me somewhat until 1972, when after an event on a remote Canadian lake I was rushed to Dryden Area Hospital for emergency treatment of a pneumothorax /lung collapse. Early one morning, my dad and I left Des Moines, Iowa on 1530 mile round trip fishing expedition to Stormy Lake, Ontario; stopping in Roseau, Minnesota to join six family members: My uncle Martin and aunt Irene Davidson of Roseau, their son Jack Davidson and his 8-yr old son, Jeffrey, of Thief River Falls, Minnesota, and Jack's older brother Dean Davidson, and his 11-yr old son, Larry, of Clive, Iowa in addition to their two two vehicles, one with a boat atop it. We were pulling a one-wheeled trailer behind my brand new 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser to handle extra gear. Leaving Roseau as the last vehicle in the three car caravan, we headed off toward the...

Mac Furlong: Real Hunter

This last Tuesday, October 1st, in Reed River, Sven saw Mac Furlong hurrying down Main Street on his way to sign up for the Big Buck Contest at Normies On Main . Mac was wearing his Reed River Bank clothes so Sven didn’t recognize him right off, Mac walking so serious like, but Sven ought to have known that about this time of year all the local deer hunters are getting real anxious. Beginning soon after the Roseau County Fair in July, hunter types begin walking about the outdoors sports departments in their local hardware stores and sporting goods shops salivating over the latest hunting gear, wearing at least one parcel of florescent orange on their person as if to let the ordinary public know that, they, in fact, are real hunters of a serious nature, although temperatures are yet in the eighties. “See here, my florescent orange insulated cap with earflaps?” “Lo and behold, my florescent-orange camo jacket with elbow padding and several important pockets?” “Check o...

Friends to the End: Delmer Roseen and Curtis Johnson

Delmer and Curtis: Friends to the End From where he was buried on Saturday April 11th, 1992, the tin roofs of his buildings could be seen through the trees. Across the fence, at the foot of his grave, were the fields he farmed. Between them, Mikinaak Creek--so much a part of Delmer Roseen’s life and sadly, his death--still winds through willow slough, over beaver dams below the Palmville Cemetery, and past his door to the South Fork of the Roseau River, only a few yards to the southeast. Delmer lived northeast of us in Palmville Township. If I looked just right, I could see his yard light through the woods between his place and mine. Either of us could hear the soft ‘clung’ of the rope and pulley against the flag pole in the cemetery at the corner of our two farms. Red willows, popple islands, and slough grass; green mossy fence posts; the often submerged patchwork of woven wire, and the depth of water i...

WannaskaWriter

Search This Blog