9/10/2020
Last night around 10pm, my daughter called me to tell me that our son who lives in Middletown, NY, had lost their home to a fire. In fact, the fire was just being extinguished at that time and my son and his wife had been taken to the hospital because of smoke inhalation. They’re fine, but it was a horrendous experience and, of course, is not yet over. Today, they are beginning the process of followup, the process of clean up, the process of evaluating loss, salvaging anything at all of their former home life, and then whatever is possible for the future. It will be a long process.
My son’s children, my grandchildren grew up in that house, it was their home for all their lives. Son and daughter-in-law lived there nearly 30 years. It is a great loss and devastation to their lives. The adjustment to whatever comes next is mind-boggling. Nothing about the next several weeks, months, will be easy. Most everything will be upsetting. We’re having a hard time not just crying for them and we knew it as visiting parents/grandparents just once most of those years.
Today, on FB, my grandson posted one of his favorite pictures of the always inviting front door with a short dissertation I have copied for you:
A house is not a home. People are home.
That said, some houses are people. Living vibrantly in a special space transfers a kind of anima, and the space becomes itself.
The Lockhart house on 16 Highland was a character in our lives, a catalyst and a comfort. It didn’t just shelter people; it met people. It was the kind of house you visit once as an 8-year-old and have dreams about for the rest of your life.
The loss. It’s unraveling in every direction. But in doing so, it is revealing the jaw-dropping scope of its influence.
Love you, house. Miss you, house.
Never forget you, house.
With the 19th anniversary of 9/11/2001 being so close, I feel compelled to tell you of one of our visits to this “house” my grandson just described. My wife and I wanted to understand the 9/11 devastation so we wanted to schedule a visit to NYC. And each year, on Christmas Eve, our son and daughter-in-law had an open house party with everyone they knew in Middletown as well as close friends around the country all invited to come whenever they wanted to, starting about 2-3pm and stay as long as they wanted to—usually 10 or 11pm before everyone was gone. This party has been the harbinger of the definition my grandson wrote in the paragraph above. We all saw this once a year. The four of my son’s family lived it 24/7/365.They loved the way they lived it.
So the trip in the year 2001, we decided to make this a surprise visit. We first visited the site of the 9/11 disaster, then on Christmas Eve, we drove to their home for the party without them knowing we were anywhere near. When we walked up to the front door, we noticed how alive the inside of the house was—filled with people happy to be there!
In this case, we rang the doorbell and a young man about 12 or 13 answered the door. We had never seen him before, but he said, “Welcome, we’re glad to see you.” or something to that effect. When we stepped in, our daughter-in-law saw us from another room. She smiled, then turned and loudly spoke to our son saying, “that couple at the door needs to see you!” he answered back, “I’ve got my hands full at the moment!” she said, “They need you!” And here comes our son around the corner to the entry where we stood, He ran to us, hugged our necks and within moments many more people, some we knew, some we just saw for the first time, were also hugging us and telling us how glad they were that we made it! We sat and talked, ate, drank, talked some more, with people as they came and went for hours. That’s a home. A home full of people. These annual parties were just about always that way.
It is heart-breaking to think that may never be the same again. But, as we know, the loss of one tradition allows us to look forward to the next great tradition to be built in our lives. My take away thought, though just a few hours after the tragic loss of the house which was a home, is this: My son, his wonderful wife and two wonderful grandchildren who are already in the process of building their own set of traditions—these shall all rise again because it wasn’t a 3 story old building, fashioned in victorian charm which made that house a home: it was the four of them. They loved, they shared, they cared. And they still do. We love them.
Thanks for reading, the Elder
the Elder's Blog 