A house where 2 boys and their parents grew up

Published May 14, 2007

A year ago this month, we planted a "For Sale" sign in the front yard of our beautiful old house on a tree-lined street in Amherst.
All last summer that sign was there, except when it was plucked out and leaned against the sandstone steps so the lawn could be mowed.
We saw that sign standing there every time we pulled out of the driveway, including the time last August when we hauled the last of our belongings from the place.
The sign was still there in the fall when there was no one living in the house to hear the roar of the crowds at football games on Friday nights, when no one was there to hand out candy to trick-or-treaters.
And it was there through the winter, although by that time, it was leaning a little.
I didn't drive by it much. It hurt my feelings to think that no one wanted the house that was our home for 22 years. I wanted my house to be like the prom queen - pretty and popular - but she was the girl who wasn't even asked to the dance.
The "For Sale" sign remained there in the spring as the rains fell and made the grass around it grow faster than its absentee owners could mow.
Finally, after almost a year, the square metal sign's sentry duty is over. Someone has bought our house.
We haven't met the new owner, but she must be someone who looked beyond the flaws of something that has been standing for 117 years (like creaky floorboards and wavy window glass).
I plan to write her a letter, passing down stories of the house, the way we pass down stories of our ancestors.
I want to tell her about the day my husband announced - and I panicked - that he was going to tear the shingle siding off the house and restore the cedar boards underneath.
I want to tell her there is a baseboard heater in the smallest bedroom because that's the room my baby slept in when I brought him home from the hospital.
And then I'll tell her the wall behind the bedroom door is patched because that baby grew into a teenager with a temper and one day flung the door open with such force that the doorknob punched a hole in the wall.
I'll tell her that the cracks in the grout in the tile floor of the kitchen are there because the people who installed it - my husband and I - didn't know what we were doing. But she should probably be thankful she can even see the tiles because I remember crying while on my hands and knees because the grout was drying faster than I could wipe it from the tiles.
I'll tell her how the fireplace mantel in the family room addition came from a salvage yard in Ohio City and the big oak columns came from an auction.
I'll point out the tree in the backyard that came from my grandma's yard, and I'll show her how she can hang an Ohio State flag from the two cup hooks that have been screwed into the ceiling on the wraparound porch.
And maybe I'll even apologize for that smelly skunk and its smelly family that most likely will wake her up some nights - even though I did everything in my power - except convince my husband to shoot them - to get rid of them.
And if she doesn't believe me, she can ask the neighbor - the one who drove me and a cardboard box filled with five baby skunks out in the country to find them a new home.