Back to Mahopac

 

The mail awaited.

Sure, I've changed my address but it will take a while before things are switched over. 

The new owner of my parent's house and I have a decent relationship. We also have each other's cell phone numbers. So he texted me to say there was mail in the box and I could feel free to stop by. He'd just leave it there.

Not wanting to leave it too long, despite knowing I'd be driving by on Tuesday, I made the voyage back this morning.

While tempting to call it home, I can't. It's not home anymore. Maybe in some way it will always be but it's best to cut the tie.

I drove back with a hint of excitement while feeling weird.

The weird feeling was right.

The first thing I noticed was the high grass. Like, higher than anything I (or my father) would ever tolerate. Even though it had only been a few weeks since I last mowed it, it is the heavy season for that yard.

I parked next to the mailbox. The contents were mostly junk though there were a few things that needed to be dealt with. Nothing big but they served as reminders of things that needed to be canceled or changed.

The house looked empty. It also looked sad if there was any way to give it a personality.

I decided to walk to the garage door and look in. The ceiling had been stripped of all of the old insulation.

"Good," I thought or I might have even said it. That had taken countless baseballs over the years if I'm being honest. 

The garage could serve as a place to pitch rubber balls. I could pitch a full game there. However, a pipe ran just above the "strike zone" (sketched out in chalk), and hitting that pipe at the right angle would propel a ball up into the insulation.

Yeah, I was that kid.

I stepped up to the front door. I had to look through the port.

I was stunned. This was more than just damaged ancient insulation emblematic of imagined baseball games. 

It was gutted.

The living room. The kitchen. The bathroom. The basement.

Every last ounce of paneling -- ugly or otherwise -- gone.

In the kitchen, the stove, oven, sink, cabinets, and wall between the kitchen and living room were gone.

In the bathroom, the tub, toilet, and sink were all gone.

It was as if the Kisslingers -- the builder of the neighborhood -- had reverted everything back to 1963. The walls were bare, back to their original colors. There were exposed beams and parts of the ceiling were missing.

I knew time needed to move on. I just didn't expect it to be so quick. I have no animosity for it happening. It's their place now and they should be excited to get the project going.

Despite every last temptation of wanting to go inside, I got back in the car, heaved a sigh, and drove away.

Figuring I've already pushed all of my emotions and not breaking, I made one more stop before going home.

It was a place I meant to go to before I moved. A short drive of maybe 15-20 minutes.

I went to my parent's grave.

I set about the routine of visiting Hillside Cemetery.

Sadly, I have a cousin who died at birth, and, shortly after, my aunt died. I can't even imagine how awful that was.

My uncle and his second wife -- the one I grew up with and whom I adored -- are buried nearby.

Right behind them are my maternal grandparents. A few stones to the right is my paternal grandmother.

Ah, Daisy May Adams. I should have my sister write a post about her. She was a character whose life before she met my grandfather was in Port Chester, NY as well as East Port Chester, which is in Connecticut. However, it's now known as Byram.

Which, of course, is part of ... anyone? ... Greenwich.

But of note to me is that Daisy was born in 1879. She was 50 when she had my father.

And, if you're doing the math, she would be 143 years old next month.

I next walked to my father's longtime friend, Earl Travis. Some time, let's say in the early 80s, my dad walked with me to Earl's grave. He felt like no one visited his dear friend or took care of his headstone.

"Always keep it clean," he told me. I've done so ever since for a man I didn't know. I was two when he died. My father was too broken to go to his funeral.

I'd like to believe there's a smile somewhere each time I make that walk, struggling to find the exact spot where "Uncle Earl" is buried.

A small pot sat on his stone so someone had clearly been to visit but I still diligently pulled grass and cleaned it off so that it could be seen.

Next, I drove past my aunt and uncle on the other side of the cemetery. Until my mother was buried in 2020, my Aunt Jean was the most recent burial. Sadly, my Uncle Oscar was buried far too young, in 1975.

He was my godfather.

Lastly, I proceeded down the hill to my parents. I found one of the famous tiles, placed there by my nieces 30 years ago. The other two have disappeared. A rabbit, left there by my mother some years ago, was behind the stone in pieces.

For those wondering, I didn't break down. If anything, I felt dead inside.

Empty.

I simply stood and thought.

I kissed my hand and placed it on the stone twice -- once for each parent. I started doing that a few years ago -- long before Mom died. Never wanting to be "showy" (I mean, God forbid we show emotion) I quietly did that the day of Mom's funeral. 

An attendee that day -- I won't say who (for now) -- grumbled while some of us stood at Mom's grave following the service.

"It's not like she's coming back," is how it was reported to me.

Regardless, it was time to go for today.

To allow me to process everything and feel something again, I took a bit of a longer route, along US 9 and NY route 9A. Basically, that rolls you next to the Hudson River. Peekskill became Croton-on-Hudson became Ossining became Sleepy Hollow became Tarrytown.

Then I turned towards home. Grocery shopping, hockey, and a hungry 20-year-old awaited.

We must keep moving forward knowing that it's OK to occasionally look back.

Even if that means we can never go home again.