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Preface
An old, white-haired man with oddly dark and silent eyes writes of a house that is “no more a house” on a farm that is “no more a farm” in a town that is “no more a town.”
Whose house does he speak of? Is it mine?
“Someone’s road home from work this once was,” he says, “Who may be just ahead of you on foot.”
It’s the “once was” that lingers in my mind. What has changed? Has the house changed? the road? the someone who may be just ahead of me on foot? I would like to talk to that person, hear the stories of comings and goings, the tales of heartaches and sorrows, of laughter and joy that took place along this road, in that house, to that person.
An abandoned house on an empty road can be a frightening thing. It looks out on the world like a patient dazed, injured by an onrushing world. It tells its stories disconnectedly, one after another, pausing, interrupting itself, its hair unkempt, not following social rules. Its emptiness can be lonely and even oppressive. If you stay to listen to its stories, you have to piece together the narrative. You have to fill in gaps.
An abandoned house can be an adventure. It entices with boyish enthusiasm and gap-toothed grin. There’s treasure to be found here, it whispers with a wink. You just have to know where to look. You have to listen. You have to know how to listen. The challenge is finding the treasure without tearing the house apart.
A house, a road, a book—all are laden with meaning, like a tree full of fruit that replenishes each year. Some are large and some are small; fruit pickers change, but the fruit more or less stays the same. Your need changes. Your enjoyment does too. Are you hungry? Is your throat parched? Do you turn away, looking for something more sweet?
People come and go. They live their lives. They have hopes and dreams, loves and disappointments. They make good and bad decisions. They live and they die. Some people write their memories. All that is left of some is a one-line mention in a census or a notation on a death record. Some are gone for good. The earth has swallowed them up. They live out their lives, hoping for a home or for a meal, mourning the loss of a child, laughing in the joy of morning. But the earth has swallowed them up. They leave only the faintest of illegible traces, if that.
Some are buried with their stories in a retirement home, a convalescent home, an old folks home. Perhaps they relive those memories disconnectedly, their gaze empty or perhaps frightened by the onrushing world that has passed them by. Some can no longer speak, but if you watch, you might a catch a glimpse of a story chasing across dark and silent eyes.
Can the story be restored, the essential house gone?
The house—abandoned or lived in still—has memory, traces of inhabitants and the lives they have lived. The land has memory. This book does too. But some of it