The House – Jennifer Ann Redmond
The House
There’s a photo I love, taken in 1982, of snow falling past the front door of my grandparents’ house, left invitingly open, promising warmth within. A year later, before the snows returned, my childhood had fallen like maple leaves, bright one moment and then gone.
Summer 1983, and utopia was being tucked into the spare room bed, with the yellow sheets. Prayers had a direct hotline to God because Nanny said them with me. Papa, never comfortable showing his affection, waking me gently with a dish of fruit and a smile, as excited to start the day as I was.
Both emigrated from southern Italy while still in their teens. Nanny lived with her sisters, snipping threads in a garment sweatshop by day, going to “the English school” at night. Papa worked as a barber and iceman and served in the US Army during WWII. After the war they married, started a family, and built a successful salumeria in Manhattan, offering the finest products of their homeland. Chefs and movie stars shopped there; even Garbo stopped in. In 1978, after years of hard work, Nanny and Papa were finally free to enjoy their retirement in a custom-built house only six blocks from their daughter, son, and three grandchildren. It was the culmination of their lives, their American dream made real: the streets weren’t paved in gold, but there was central air and a Cadillac in the driveway.
Papa grew everything in the garden, his personal Eden complete with St. Joseph and St. Jude standing guard. I was small enough to merge with it, beans twining through my fingers, corn silk sticking to my jeans, soil and sun and sweat for playmates. I was six years old and every hour held a life-changing adventure (and every night a trip to the baby blue bathtub).
My grandparents and I were inseparable. Nanny jumped rope and splashed with me in the wading pool, Papa let me sit in his chair and brought me little treasures from the dime store. My parents would join us for Sunday dinner and I would have my whole world, everyone I loved best, seated at one table. An impenetrable circle, a fortress of comfort and security.
The nights became chilly. School and routine took over, Nanny packed the yard toys away, and Papa readied the garden for winter, preparing each branch and stalk for their dreamtime until spring. While organizing the shed, he dropped a piece of scrap lumber on his leg, requiring medical attention. It was then that illness returned; hepatitis contracted via transfusion during a previous surgery worsened, requiring hospitalization.
Thanksgiving approached. Our family gathered, keenly feeling the absence. My parents and I visited Papa earlier that day, and he insisted on sharing his turkey dinner with me. We sat side-by-side on the rigid edge of his hospital bed and gave thanks. It was the last time I ever saw him. On November 25, 1983, I lost Papa and the part of innocence that says everything will always be okay. From that day on, my outlook matured, sobered; suddenly I needed glasses, literally unable to view the world in the same way.
Not long after, Nanny decided to sell the house. She was anguished by ghosts, too many Christmas Eves and birthdays and Papa’s shadow lingering in doorways, his voice in the dark. The gates were unlocked to strangers, alien footsteps and voices trying to put a monetary value on each square foot. Its spirit withdrew, quietly, until all that was left was just another building on the market. I often dream of it, the rooms exactly as I remember them, furniture clean and bright under the ubiquitous plastic slipcovers, each picture and knick-knack in place. A welcome time capsule in my psyche.
Nanny and Papa are both gone now, resting in the ground like seeds from his long-ago garden, their souls flourishing in eternal springtime. The house remains, six blocks away, but its heart of with laughter and love remains inside of me. My bones are the brick, my blood is the mortar; my skin still holds the heat of the sidewalk, just before getting into the car and leaving it forever, watching it shrink until I could hold it in my hand.
Top photo: The author’s grandparents in front of their house.
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