My parents’ house has a front door but no one ever uses it. Everyone comes and goes through the back door.
The dank, musty smells of age and neglect greet you as you enter the house because five steps down to the right is the basement. Its smooth cement walls are slightly damp and cool to the touch. The aged brown wood of the floor joists are visible above. There is no ceiling. There are several shelves filled with old things: random holiday decorations, worn cardboard boxes, cans of paint, a few rusty tools. Three small windows on either side of the basement let in some light, but still this place is dark and gloomy.
The basement was where as kids we’d hold marathon ping pong tournaments and play hours of the table top Bobby Hull hockey game. After particularly wet rainstorms, the bare cement floor often floods. A large drain in the rear corner has to be unscrewed with a pipe wrench in order to let the water out. Vintage movie posters once hung on the walls, remnants of my mom’s career as a theater manager. The Halloween party we had down here during my sophomore year in college was one for the ages. The next day my older brother Ray and I, shaky with hangovers, had to clean up the spilled beer, stale chips, cans, bottles and smashed cake that covered the floor. We celebrated two of our friend’s birthdays that night. They blew out the candles but got no cake.
My old baseball mitts and bats were once stored here. I wonder what became of them? My mom wasn’t much for saving things. An old refrigerator stands against a wall, it is filled with bottled water and long-neck Budweisers. My dad only drinks Bud but buys the good stuff (Heineken or Molson) whenever I visit, a sweet and thoughtful gesture.
Nine steps separated by a small landing lead to the inside of the house. These steps are steep and narrow, dangerous to navigate even for able bodied people. They’re downright hazardous for my 92 year old parents. A bar is bolted to the wall in the stairwell which my parents cling to when they use the steps. One slip and they’d be gone.
The steps lead to a small kitchen. A tiny pantry and narrow breakfast nook sit along the left hand side. Two south facing windows let in lots of light, but the slightly opaque white curtains are often closed so the light is dim and diffused. Mom would spend hours over the stove in here concocting her homemade pasta sauce (“gravy” in New Jersey lingo). The twin aromas of tomatoes and garlic filled the house. Macaroni with gravy is still my favorite comfort food. When the radio wasn’t playing Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennet or Dean Martin, mom would sing or hum their music while she cooked. When our daughter was little, she would often hum these sweet little melodies while she drew or played in her room. A little piece of my mom in our little girl.
My mom had such a lovely voice and could really carry a tune. Growing up, she shared a small apartment with her five sisters and my grandparents. There was a piano in the apartment and mom learned to play a bit. However, when they moved to a different place, they had to leave the piano behind. Whenever mom tells me this story, her voice is heavy with regret. Given the opportunity, I believe my mom could have been a singer or musician. I sing, play guitar and have written and recorded two cds of original music. I owe much of my musical abilities to my mom. As a boy I was constantly exposed to music, my young mind taking it all in. My mom instilled the love of music in me and that is the greatest gift she has ever given to me.
Beyond the kitchen is a larger room that doubles as a dining/living room. It has the same south facing windows and diffused lighting. Mom and dad sit here in the evenings and watch tv. They never miss Jeopardy. The front door opens onto a narrow enclosed porch. Screens are pulled down in summer. This space offers a bit of a respite from the stuffy confines of the house. The porch has always been my dad’s refuge. When we were kids, dad smoked cigars. Mom hated these and called them “turds”. He would sit out here to escape from mom and puff away.
Dad had a small transistor radio which was always tuned to some ballgame or another. Besides being an avid reader my dad has no hobbies, except for sports. He lives and breathes sports, his sports knowledge is deep. Dad played on his high school basketball team. I remember feeling so proud of him whenever mom would show us the yearbook photos of him in his uniform. Sports is the way my dad and I connect. Ray and I would spend hours listening to or watching sports with him: The Miracle Mets in 1969, the 69/70 Knicks, Ali/Frazier at Madison Square Garden in 1971 and of course the New York Yankees. Dad took me to my first major league baseball game on Father’s Day in 1965. The grass on the field was a shade of green that I never knew existed. It was Bat Day. Ray and I received real wooden bats. This is my greatest sports memory. In 2009, my wife and I took our kids to their first major league baseball game in San Francisco. It was Father’s Day.
A door in the living room leads to a short, narrow hallway which connects to a small room. This was the tv room when we were kids and later became my younger brother’s room when he came along. In January of 1964 The Beatles took America by storm. Their appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show was viewed by millions, two of whom were Ray and I. We sat on the floor in this tiny room that night and sang along as the Fab Four made history. Mom and dad sat on the couch behind us wondering what all the fuss was about.
A stairway out of this room leads up to two small rooms. One was my sister’s, the other Ray and I shared. What these rooms really are is an attic divided with a wall. With no insulation or heat, the rooms are stifling; unbearably hot in the summer and freezing in winter. Blankets, portable heaters and fans made the rooms barely livable. During big winter snowstorms, Ray and I would lean over the clock radio that sat between our beds, listening with rapt attention to the list of school closings, hoping with all of our might to hear our school’s name. This is where I sat with my first acoustic guitar, playing along to Neil Young’s Harvest until I knew all of the songs by heart. My college girlfriend and I once made love on this bed.
Each of these two rooms has a small closet. In the back of my sister’s closet is a door which opens to a crawl space underneath the roof of the house. We call it the “cubbyhole”. This is a dark and foreboding place that terrified us as kids. There are no walls or ceiling, just exposed beams and wall studs covered in dust and cobwebs. There is no light switch so a flashlight is needed for illumination which adds an extra layer of creepiness. My siblings and I would imaging all manner of unnamed horrors living within this space. It was the stuff of our childhood nightmares.
My parents’ house was built in 1936. The inside seems to grow smaller each time I visit. It is claustrophobic and stuffy. There is one bathroom. My sister, my two brothers and I grew up here. Six of us crammed into this tiny space. The cramped quarters and and lack of privacy helped fuel the chaos and conflict of our childhood. Our parents fought often. Their arguments were explosive, filled with angry putdowns and bitterness. Once as a boy I remember watching my mom cry as she stared out the kitchen window after a particularly nasty fight with dad. Seeing my mom filled with such sadness was heartbreaking.
My parents’ house is at once familiar and foreign to me. It’s difficult to imaging ever living here, yet one step inside and I’m eight years old again. My siblings and I are grown and have long ago moved away but my parents remain, caretakers of our childhood memories.