It was at one of her open houses. My wife is a realtor, and sometimes I keep her company for those two hours. The house was vacant. No furniture. No TV. Nothing. I was bored, so I got a little nosy, and asked her some questions.
- Me: “Who lived here?”
- Wife: “It was an elderly couple. The last one recently died, and their children are selling the house.”
- Me: “How long did they live here?”
- Wife: “For nearly 60 years! They were the only owners.”
- Me: “Really!!”
That got me thinking. This house was a family’s home for nearly 60 years? Amazing! I looked around, and started snapping pictures of decades of memories with my iPhone.
The beautiful wood floors in the family room echoed the laughter of countless holidays.
Many of the fixtures were old. A wire soap dish with old dried, caked on soap still clinging to it. There was a wall heater. Dad probably yelled: “Who forgot to turn off the heater? It could have burned the house down.”
I spent most of my time in the garage. I’m guessing that’s also where dad spent most of his time. Other than a pencil sharpener and a slide rule, his tools were gone. But the old power outlets were still there, where he’d plug-in his drill to put together his children’s toys, or power saw he used to make the dog house.
Dad probably also made the cupboards on the other side of the garage. The labels for things like “vegetables” and “juice” (made by one of those old-fashioned label makers) are still there. Some empty mason jars are waiting to be filled. There’s a bottle of “Margarita Mix” in the corner. Unopened. Maybe a leftover from one of their many parties.