We couldn’t say exactly when it was that just the five of us were last together. The family vacation to celebrate the 25th (now 50th) wedding anniversary of our parents? A birthday? A funeral? Or an unremarkable day, after we had grown up and out and into our own families, that escaped our notice?
But here we were, reunited in the house where we became a family. Mom and Dad, my two siblings, and me, gathered here one final time, for one final meal, to reminisce and say goodbye to the only place all of us, together, have called home.
Our parents had just sold the only house they’d ever owned. A yellow Cape on a dead-end street in suburban Connecticut that they’d bought 50-some years ago. The house they lived in as newlyweds and raised three kids in; where they hosted holiday meals, block parties, sewing clubs, graduations, and Super Bowls; and, eventually, where they’d care for their own aging parents and a growing number of grandchildren. All of that led here, to this summer night, as we gathered around the table on the screened-in porch.
The porch was one of the first do-it-yourself home-improvement projects my parents undertook. A modest, 10-by-12-foot space jutting out from the dining room into the backyard and furnished with a couple of love seats, glass-topped end tables, and a round, metal table with curved benches squeezed into the far corner. The addition has remained largely unchanged over the decades — a constant in sight, sound, and utility.
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Dinner was lobsters and steak, just like we had at all those once-every-summer meals when surf and turf were on sale at the grocery store. Back then, the air was abuzz. Voices and splashes from the pool in one neighboring yard (where we’d often just returned from). A glowing bug zapper hung from a tree in the other neighbor’s yard, zapping away from dusk onward. And crickets chirping in the woods out back as darkness set in.
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Tonight, only the crickets remain. Along with us. We contributed just as much to those summer sounds. As kids we’d be reminded to keep our voices down, that we could be heard as much as we were hearing. But we’re as boisterous now as we were then.
We carry on for hours about our memories in this house as kids, teenagers, and parents. There’s some complaining, as we’re wont to do, like having to share one shower or use a kerosene heater in winter. But mostly we share fond and funny moments, such as Christmas morning videos, the study with our first computer and dial-up internet, or suspicious behavior such as sneaking in at night over creaky floorboards.
We talk about being in the house with family, friends, and neighbors. From first-time visitors who would have trouble pulling into our narrow driveway abutted on each side by a stone wall, to those comfortable enough to let themselves in to say hello no matter the time of day. They knew the front door was never locked. The cars weren’t, either.
Apparently, the house had a history of being unlocked. When they were first looking at it to buy, our parents let themselves in one night after a rainy day to see if the basement leaked (it didn’t then, but eventually would). And when it came time to pass on the keys to the new owners all these years later, they had a hard time finding a set. They found more keys to other people’s houses — for feeding cats or in case of an emergency.
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Some of those family, friends, and neighbors we reminisce about are no longer with us. But here we are. And tonight we cherish that. As the table gets cleaned up and the wicker dome light clicks off for the final time, we’re reminded that this porch and these screens, while they kept mosquitoes out, held a great many more memories in.
Mike Giarratano is a writer in Maynard. Send comments to [email protected]. TELL YOUR STORY. Email your 650-word unpublished essay on a relationship to [email protected]. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue.