March 8, 2021
Holding my younger grandson’s hand, I slogged along the Raven Cliff trail, my daughter and the older boy just ahead of us. To the north, South Carolina’s piece of the Blue Ridge towered above us. Looking south we could see for maybe 75 miles to the hazy, flat-blue horizon. The air was clear, pure, perfect. I was warm, since lately I overdress. The kids were fine in their teeshirts.
My daughter called me about a field trip up to Caesar’s Head State Park, off U.S. 276 just south of the North Carolina line. It was a natural for me, just over four rocky miles out and back, or to and from an overlook that offers a glimpse of spectacular Raven’s Cliff Falls, where Matthew’s Creek plunges 420 feet. Along the trail we looked up soaring, thickly wooded grades and down steep slopes crisscrossed with fallen trees. We moved slowly, climbing over logs and rocks. The trail narrowed and snaked through the woods, then opened up before the falls.
The mountains sweep from our minds the dreck of life around us: the persistence of disease and the daily political mudfights, the cold war wracking the country. Then they call us to look inward, to wonder about our mortality. In a strange way, wondering brought my mind to our new home.
We finalized the deal last week, signing all those forms at an attorney’s office. The next step was deciding what to do about the look of the house and the tastes of the seller, an elderly widow who has moved to a nursing home after twenty years in the place.
The house is empty now, but I recall her furnishings and frills from our first look. The front bedroom had been used as a sort of office. A high bookshelf was stacked with Bibles and Baptist texts and tracts. Two photos, two only, stood at the end of the upper shelf, one of a couple, the other a formal portrait of a young woman. The realtor said she was the widow’s daughter, who had passed away some years ago.
I tried to form an idea of this woman who we will never meet. She liked a deep gray for the front rooms, pastels for the rest of the place, a delicate, feminine wallpaper pattern for one wall of the master bedroom. The house whispered to me of a singular way of life: tranquil, gentle, discreet, abiding in faith and neighborliness. It spoke of a life of the genteel South, well remote from the surly moodiness of some old-timers in these parts, the ones with the Confederate flags. The collection of books told me she was devoted to her church.
The front yard is tidy, neatly landscaped to be compliant with the HOA conventions. The back yard is square and modest, bordered by a white picket fence; the tops of a couple of the pickets are broken. The soil is soft and moss-covered, but showed that someone cultivated something last summer. A large tree looms in the yard of the neighbor directly behind ours, promising shade. A small raised deck sits outside the back door, the wood getting soft and rotten, the paint peeling. I guessed the decline predated the owner, who probably had had no interest in sunning herself. She had other concerns.
The entire house was spotless, including the kitchen appliances. While she may have suspected we wouldn’t go along with her color scheme, clearly she had seen to it that someone scrubbed the oven, refrigerator, and cabinets, everything. The countertop, although the builder’s standard economy-grade laminate, gleamed.
She paid scrupulous attention to details, including some odd ones. In a kitchen drawer we found the warranty paperwork and instruction manuals for things long gone: a coffeemaker, toaster oven, hotplate, clock radio. It occurred to me that that drawer may not have been opened in a decade.
Her nephew, who came by to help clear her things out, said she was at a place only a few miles away. He was holding garage sales to get rid of her housewares and selling her car, a 2004 Honda, which showed not a dent or a ding.
I wondered about her thoughts right now. Like Sandy and me, she has left a home that was hers for decades to restart her life. She’ll be at a senior-citizen housing facility at close quarters with others. Was she happy about that? Was it her choice? How would she adjust to moving from life alone in a home of her own, to a furnished room in an institution with rules and policies? How does anyone?
I wondered whether, while living in the house that is now ours, she thought about her own future. Presumably she, or somebody, worked out the financial details for her new arrangement. What about the rest of it: is nursing home living permanent, the last stop? How do you say goodbye to your last home on earth?
We know that senior life is full of these questions. Some you can answer, some you can’t. You try, then move on. Say your prayers, and move on.
On Friday I finished my stint of 30 radiation sessions., Sandy and I brought brownies for the techs, I rang the traditional bell, for the second time. We finished our covid vaccinations. I got scheduled for another CT scan. We started hauling boxes to the house.
We walked through the place again and looked at the walls and the gently dated wallpaper. The paint colors were still deep and full, the molding joints flawlessly cut and fit. We thought again about the former owner, her satisfaction with her home, her way of life. We talked about it. Then we hired a painter to change everything, to remake, renew the place. The owner’s dark grays, the subtle shades that comforted her, will give way to something we picked. The house will be reborn. We’ll move on.
On the Road 