I
spent so little time in the place of my birth that I had almost no
chance of getting to know many of my predecessors. So, when a distant
relative once produced a box of photographs, I remember peering at the
slightly familiar faces.
We have this human custom... we expect people
to smile
and look at the camera. I don't know if my grandparents and their
cousins were
given flawed instructions, but their visages were stoic and unflinching.
One face in
particular stood out. She was a beautiful woman
with piercing eyes. The photo was colorless and so were her eyes. I
asked my
dad, "Who is she?"
"She's
my favorite aunt."
he replied.
"Why
is that?" I
asked.
"She
was a bit eccentric... maybe
a bit mean... but I
thought she was great... and she always liked me." he
responded.
My father is
not one to elaborate. If you press him, though-
he will. When I asked about her eccentricities, he explained that
people
had memories of her... and who she might have become had she not taken
a tumble
down the stairs as a child. The fall had changed her. If the temper
weren't
enough to chase the suitors, her other foibles would set her fate. My
father's
aunt would never marry. She had, what we now call, early-onset
Alzheimer’s and
she spent the bulk of her adulthood in a nursing home. When others
would arrive
she could hardly recognize them. But with my father she would beam.
And
she would remember him.
------------
I'm convinced
there is a tender reservoir within our souls
that collects these memories. Like a shoebox of photographs of long
forgotten people, it can be brought out- if we so choose.
These
emotions are stirred by the subtlest things... the
smell of campfire... a cool evening breeze... the lilt of a song we
haven't heard in a very long
while... or hearing an old expression rescued from a bygone day. We
have the capacity,
as if from nowhere, to feel something powerful and familiar.
We
have memory-
and, even among those who are ravaged by a
disease that robs them of that very capability... there are those lucid
moments
when long forgotten stories present themselves from the recesses to the
forefront.
------------
I realize
that I've been rambling... but a insist, I have a
purpose in bringing this up.
I became a
real estate agent for a reason…. and it is this:
There
is something hallowed
about the word "home".
I'm not
talking about the materials that create edifices in
various sizes and shapes.
I'm referring
to the place in which we create memories.
In my life, I
have called more than three dozen places “home”.
This is not uncommon for those from military families. We would pack up
and
leave at a moment’s notice. Sometimes it was an adventure and
other times a
hardship.
I created a
secret tradition back then.
I'd always
leave something behind.
In California
it was my lucky feather that I tucked
underneath a loose floorboard. In Tennessee-
a
valuable baseball card that I buried beneath
the surface root of a large tree. In Texas
there's a buried hardbound copy of "Hoop
Crazy" - a book that I wanted to finish but felt a need to
treasure up.
The list is longer, but you get the picture.
With each
intentionally discarded keepsake I left behind in
my childhood, I had every intention of coming back some day to retrieve
each one.
Much later I
discovered that they held more significance by
their remaining behind.
------------
These days I
spend a great deal of time looking at homes
that have been lost to foreclosure.
I see the
treasures left behind... many of them, I'm
certain, unintended.
It saddens me
to see the forgotten artwork in the closet...
where a young one drew a stick figure girl and her pink dog. I see the
garden
in disarray- mostly a collection weeds. These are the lost treasures of
a residence-
once a home,
but now a house.
Then I put it
all in perspective.
We are all of
pioneer stock...
…Descendants
of persons who sacrificed.
Many of those
who came before us brought with them a paltry
sum with which to start anew. They scraped together what they could for
passage
to America.
My
predecessors came from Sweden and the British Isles. They
removed the rocks and trees from the cold Illinois soil to plant
anything that
could take root. Through the toil of their labor they built homes and
raised
families.
It is true,
as well, of your forbears. Each of them found a new home in which
success was never
guaranteed… but they had optimism that their efforts would
be rewarded.
A few
thrived and a few had set-backs.
Those stoic
faces- captured so long ago from camera lens to
paper, only to be stowed away on a shelf, spring to my thoughts when I
see the
empty homes that once held memories.
Yet... I know
this much: home is
wherever we choose to make it.
It can be in
the rental home that fits the current
income... or in the apartment near the park. Along the path of my
career, I've
seen people move upward- into residences that give them more space.
I've seen people
move laterally... albeit from another part of the country- to a new
environment.
I've also seen those who are downsizing. For many of them, they see
this change
not as a setback... but as a positive challenge... a time to re-trench
or to
prove to themselves that they will
make the best of the situation.
If I've
learned anything through all my moving it is this: We
can always start over.
Everywhere we
go we can find opportunity- and people who
will have an affirmative impact on our lives.
------------
As an agent,
I am privileged to see the strength and resolve
of those who are equal to the challenge of a shifting
economy… and it makes me
proud to be associated with those whose spirits cannot be broken.
So- here's
to the memories-
from the distant reminiscences
that are trapped in the recesses of our fading recollection... to the
fresher ones
which are at the kernel of creation.
We are, each
day, building memories… and I feel it a
pleasure to serve those who allow me to be a part of helping
them find
their new home.
-----------
Chuck Willman
is a real estate agent who, for the past
twenty seven years, has been proud to call Arizona home.
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Image
“Old Family
Photos” by Jean
Scheijen