Return to a Childhood Home

The house doesn’t just hold my memories; it holds my DNA.

Photo by Eirik Olsen on Unsplash

The message came from across the country via Facebook. “We are selling Cedar Avenue,” he wrote. The timing was uncanny. In just a few days from reading this, I would be back in Virginia visiting my family.

“It would be incredible to come see the house, if possible,” I replied. “Would that work?”

“Terrific!” he said. “We would love to meet you.”

…

My connection to the current owners happened only a few months ago when my mother spontaneously, and with determination, decided to knock on the door of our house on Cedar Avenue, a house we hadn’t lived in since 1986.

Awakening one morning, mom declared to herself this was the day she was going to drive the short 15 miles into the city and see if the owners were available. Even though my folks lived nearby for many years, she had never stopped in. This was the day. She wanted to share a recent story I had written about the place. My House on Cedar Avenue

As if they had been waiting for her, the couple, who owned the house since 1996, welcomed my mother in, apologizing to this unexpected guest for the piles created from an extensive closet reorganizing. Despite being in the middle of deep cleaning and disarray, Brian and Cynthia invited her to look around, to explore once again the home that never lost its powerful meaning as the center of our early family story.

In addition to the story I had written, my mom brought other artifacts, remnants of the time we lived there.

This was a house she and my dad reconstructed with literal blood, sweat, and tears. A house that held their DNA and mine. She had pictures and stories, such as the one about a dead possum falling out of the walls when my dad removed the crumbling drywall in the kitchen.

She shared an award the house received just before we sold it to the other family before these owners. It was an easy bond between my mom and these folks, who cherished this unique place, originally built in the mid-1800s and restored by my parents, my idealistic young parents, in the 70s.

After her visit, I received my first message through Facebook.

He wrote, “Your mom just stopped by and we were so happy that she did. She shared a copy of your article with us and spent some time sharing about your time here. It is truly a unique and magical house. We have loved every minute of living here. You are always welcome to stop in.”

Now, it was my turn to come back to the old house.

…

I parked across the narrow street, greeting my youngest brother (who was 5 when we left, now 39) as we got out of the car. This was a family affair, my mom and dad also joining us for the reunion. A close friend was traveling with me from California, sharing this journey down memory lane. Long travel days and insomnia heightened my already close-to-the-surface emotions. I felt an overwhelming barrage of nostalgia as I turned toward the house.

Photo by the author.

From the street, the house looks the same. The white, burgundy, and cream colors were the ones my parents chose decades ago from the Colonial Williamsburg palette. With each step, my adult self seemed to give way to the childhood Mandy as memories started to take over my mind; as if the spirits of 4, 9,13-year-old me had been waiting in the wings and were now pressing forward to flood me with visions of my young life lived here.

The house was smaller (childhood houses are always smaller it seems) and it was like greeting an old friend, a beloved relative who had been far away for a long time; whose spirit is exactly the same despite having shrunk a bit, with little lines around their eyes. I wasn’t just visiting a house; I was experiencing a reunion with a part of myself I always carry with me; a part that emerges in my dreams from time to time.

“Here you are.” It seemed to say. “Welcome.”

The large boxwoods were gone and a dogwood removed to make space for a larger gravel driveway. The brick walkway to the porch was shorter than my recollection. But the white porch swing still hung just left of the front windows; the red-tin porch roof still an inviting perch for anyone climbing out an upstairs window.

Then we were met by the owners. A couple who exuded warmth and hospitality from the moment they opened the front door. The burgundy front door.

The door opens into a small living room with the same wood floors. The room holds the distressed wooden beams my dad uncovered in the ceiling; this room still lined with floor-level water heaters that run where baseboards usually would. A room lit by natural light streaming in through old, wavy-glass paned windows. The steep-pitched stairs along the wall, down which my brother remembered tumbling.

After a warm handshake and welcome, they said, “Please make yourself at home.”

…

Since the 80s, a few rooms have been added, the kitchen remodeled, the layout reconfigured in a few places. My cozy little bedroom now an ensuite bathroom. But with each turn around familiar corners, each walk through a familiar door, there were whispers and visions of my days growing up here. It’s like almost catching ghosts at play or watching ethereal actors recreate my memories.

I see my grandparents at their small dining table in front of the bay window. Gram buttering toast while Grandad reads; the window overlooking a small rose garden outlined by boxwood bushes that still grow in this space. I see my young self standing next to my mother in the kitchen as she stirs her spaghetti sauce for dinner. I hear the clicking on the keyboard of the Apple 2C personal computer, circa 1985, up in the loft of my dad’s office. There is the murmur of chatter in the dining room where friends and family gathered for Christmas Eve dinners; people who came for many different holidays in this house. I see my brothers and me catching fireflies in the yard while my uncle picks blackberries from an overgrown bush in the corner.

The whispers of years gone by mingling with the present moment.

Upstairs, I walk through a surprisingly short door and am met with the vision of my infant brother (now 44) laying on a makeshift changing table in the small bedroom that was my parents’ room. I see the short hallway where I slept on hot summer nights to catch some of the cold air from the lone window air conditioner upstairs. There are almost too many memories to catch.

While I walk through the house, Brian and Cynthia are offering some of their own stories in this house where they raised their children. They share their unique memories in these familiar rooms. But soon, they will take their memories with them as they say goodbye as we did all those years ago.

They are returning to their New England roots, leaving their DNA behind in the walls; their ghosts intermingling with ours.

…

Just before my family and I arrived, the owners accepted an offer on the house. In a few months, they will pack up and say goodbye and grieve the ending of this chapter. And I can only hope that if they ever return to Virginia and find themselves nostalgically driving down Cedar Avenue like I have, if they ever decide to stop and knock on the door, I hope the people who live there will welcome them in with the same magnanimity they extended to us.

I hope the next owners will say to them, “Welcome. We’re so glad you’re here. Please make yourself at home.”