Editor’s note: The original version of this column was published on June 9, 2002.
Except for the iron bars on every window, the ranch house at 800 Calle Del Corte in Albuquerque, NM, looked exactly as I left it.
It was the last place where I, my sister, my brother and our parents lived as a family under one roof.
Back then, the Vietnam dragon was devouring thousands of victims my age, and I was mentally preparing to sacrifice myself. But for most of us high school graduates in the mid-1960s, it was also a beautiful time of innocence.
Sitting outside my house in 2002, I was reminded of a flood of memories. I remembered 1966, when Mom and Dad were still part of my daily life, as were my younger sister and brother. I closed my eyes and imagined old best friends and forgotten girlfriends, and the sense of carefree irresponsibility I had held onto as a teenager when I felt it was about to end.
From the outside, the house looked as if only a week had passed. No one could see that so much had changed in those years, including the death of both parents. I felt a strong urge to go back inside, where the memories could unite with the reality that had created them.
Rap, rap, rap.
Finally, a frail, elderly woman in a bathrobe answered, cautiously peeking out from behind the half-open front door.
“Yes?” she said, eyeing me suspiciously.
I sensed her fear and was speechless for a moment. Then the words bubbled out of me and I awkwardly explained to her why I, a stranger, was disturbing her peace.
“Hello, ma’am,” I said. “I lived in this house years ago. It was the last time I lived with my family, and I was back in Albuquerque and wanted to stop by. I know this is unexpected, and I apologize, but, well, I was also wondering if I could come in for a minute and refresh my memories.”
I swallowed as I realized how bizarre the request sounded.
“But I don’t know you,” she said, narrowing her eyes in disbelief. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
I rummaged around in my bag for some kind of ID and finally showed her my phone. (Who knows why?) I assured her that my intentions were serious. I even remembered the Martindales, neighbors who fortunately still lived down the block.
She stared at me for a long moment, seeming only slightly more comfortable with my intentions. By now I was feeling a bit like Hugh Hefner in a bathrobe trying to sneak into Jerry Falwell’s house.
“That’s okay,” I said, smiling. “I honestly understand if you’d rather not let me in. I probably wouldn’t do that either.”
As I turned to leave, she opened the door wider.
“Well,” she said, “I think everything will be fine. You seem sincere and are the person you say you are.”
When I went inside, I saw that the carpet had not changed. The house seemed smaller than I remembered, but the molecules of its pale walls still contained every message left by another family that had housed them decades ago.
As I wandered through the halls and rooms, I heard Mama’s voice inviting us to dinner and Papa’s instructions on discipline from an Army colonel. There was my brother Grant’s old room, where his rock collection was housed, and through the bedroom window Sister Gaye once crept out to spend a late evening with friends. My old room seemed more cramped than I remembered. I grinned at the long-forgotten round brass fittings on the cabinets in the sunken study.
I stood in the kitchen and imagined an attractive, cheerful blonde woman, then in her mid-40s, who was diligently caring for her family. I could almost feel her next to me.
Meanwhile, the nice woman who had let me in answered the phone.
“No, I just couldn’t make it to mass today,” I heard her say to a worried child or friend on the other end. “I was just too sick to go.”
I looked at her and was grateful that this sickly woman at the end of her life had been moved to trust a stranger simply by the words of him.
Before I left, I took her cool hand in mine and squeezed it.
“Thank you for giving me this time here,” I said. She smiled as if she understood.
Back in the desert sun, I felt like I had stepped out of a time machine that had taken me back for a few minutes to a time when everything was still naive and fresh and the future seemed limitless.
And I realized that I was not alone in having such memories of times gone by. Many of us now in the fall surely share similar nostalgic feelings that will forever linger in the long-gone homes of our youth.
Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist who has edited three Arkansas newspapers and directed the master’s degree in journalism at Ohio State University. He can be reached by email at [email protected].
