I just got back from a family vacation back East. After a few days in New York, my wife and I left my daughter in the care of her Aunt Julia, and ventured off on a road trip to Boston, where Pat had attended Northeastern University. Along the way, we paid a visit to my mother’s family home in Simsbury, Connecticut, to see my Aunt Kathleen. The timing was significant, since Kathleen’s twin brother, Bob, had just passed away from a massive heart attack at 86 and she was looking forward to seeing some of the family.
On our way to Boston, we were able to spend an afternoon with her, going to lunch at Peaberry’s Cafe, and then driving around town as she showed us the sights, including the elementary schools where she taught the second grade from 1949 to 1986. Seeing her brought back vivid memories of my mother, as they were very similar in appearance. We promised that we would stop by again on our way back from Boston and, perhaps, spend the night. Happily, we were able to make that hope a reality.
She seemed just as pleased to see us a second time and we spent a couple of hours looking at old photographs and talking about the family, especially Bob. I had spent little time with him over the years, other than when he and Kathleen would visit our home in California, either for Christmas or on their way to travel with my parents. I remember that Bob was in a class by himself when it came to snoring, having shared a room with him on a visit to Cape Cod. I know that he had his own unique sense of time and urgency (or lack thereof) when he traveled; often disappearing for hours and telling no one where he had gone. He said he like to go out dancing, though I have a hard time imagining him as a ladies’ man, and never knew him to have had a girlfriend (something Kathleen confirmed). He loved to tell jokes. My favorite was “What does a psychiatrist call a crack-pot? A ‘psycho-ceramicist’!” He told that one to me many times during a visit to Simsbury in 1968. But, other than those few vignettes, he was an enigma. He sold insurance, lived in Hartford, had a round, red smiling face like his father, and lived a mostly solitary life.
Bob had moved in with Kathleen in February, when his health had deteriorated to the point where he couldn’t live by himself. She had an electric lift installed in the long stairway leading up from the entry to his bedroom on the second floor.
As bedtime approached, Kathleen made sure that we were comfortably settled in my grandparents’ old bedroom, also at the top of the house. Fortunately, a summer rainstorm had cooled the evening and Kathleen had gone out of her way to make sure the air conditioning was brought up from the basement and installed. The two original single beds my mother’s parents had slept in for so many years seemed out of place in the enormous room. We giggled at how much times and customs have changed and unpacked for the night.
We were anxious to take showers to freshen up from the drive, so I went first, using the bathroom adjacent Uncle Bob’s room, kitty-corner from the one we now occupied. I was looking for some shampoo in the medicine cabinet when I came across his toilet articles. A couple of disposable razors, toothpaste, toothbrush, sunscreen, and a can of Barbasol with its distinctive red and white stripes (“Beard Buster!” the label proclaimed). I stared dully at them for a moment, then was suddenly struck by the thought that everything here was exactly as he had left it, some three weeks ago. He probably put that can of shave cream back on the shelf, weighing it in his hand and making a mental note of when he might need to buy more. Everything was put away, ready for the next day that never came. It was as if his things had managed to outlive him and they weren’t sure what to do next.
In this age of disposability, it is odd to think of our “things” outlasting us. I suppose that is why I find estate sales kind of unsettling, whereas I have no problem with yard sales. I had a similar reaction upon seeing the Simsbury house. Viewed from the street, it is a very handsome building, sitting on a hillside overlooking Hopmeadow Road, which runs straight through town. Inside, however, it was a peculiar mix of antiques from the 30s and 40s, garage sale furniture, and mismatched china. I think I expected that everything inside would be period, like the restored homes you see on the PBS show, This Old House. But this was actually a more truthful look at a life spent living in one residence for almost eighty years.
Aunt Kathleen now sleeps downstairs in the former dining room and rarely visits the rest of the house, except for the kitchen and the impossibly small downstairs vanity. Her life has shrunk, too, as her entire immediate family – parents, sister (my mother) and, now, brother Bob – have passed.
Someday – hopefully not soon, but inevitably – Kathleen’s close friend Linda will be forced to close up the Hopmeadow home for the last time. All the living Magowans will have gone, leaving no one to carry on the family name. And all Kathleen’s remaining “things” will be sold or given away to charity, to become part of someone else’s continuum, and so on, and so on. It makes me sad to think that, with all the things I now own, I am still very lacking in what I should have valued most: clear memories of some of my closest relatives.
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