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1970s Beach House

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We got a new house and it looks like the Brady Bunch house.  Or like a grandmother’s beach house, been in your family for a generation or two, all filled with nicknacks (funny chandeliers, stained glass, crumbling books, board games).  There’s a nice breeze from the fans and the guards are chatting happily outside and I’m here with nice colleagues, so actually it kind of does feel like a vacation.  I feel like any moment we’re going to grab our towels and swimsuits and run down a sandy hill to the ocean!  And while we’re NOT going to do that, because we aren’t allowed even passed the gates, I feel like WE ARE, and the (albeit delusional) anticipation of spending the afternoon sunbathing and swimming in the ocean is still rather nice.

The books in the bookshelf that came with this house include two yellowing  pop-psychology paperbacks: “Why Men are the Way They Are” and “How to Become an Assertive Women”.  We’ve been opening them up to random pages and laughing (over the stories of June trying to “assert” herself with the dry cleaners because her lace tablecloth that is still stained; over the Clark Kent metaphors…) until we consider that these books belonged to a family in Capital City in the 1970s or so, and that family kept them for several decades.  And read them.  They are dog-eared.  I can see ghosts of the family laughing around the dining room table — tripping up the stairs — with workmen in the house, pointing up to the spot that they want the white ceramic chandelier hung — the kids chasing each other through rooms — hugging close friends at the threshold and welcoming them inside — and I wish I knew who they were and where they are now.

I guess they fled the war.  And then I feel bad, like it should still be their home and we are here without an invitation.


Written by ilchwl

14 October 2011 at 10:07 am

Posted in Uncategorized

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