The Old Man's House.

The house was built by the man with his own two hands, for his wife and his children. The year was 1922 and the man and his family were living in Little Italy, in the heart of The City.  The streets were too crowded, the apartment buildings were too noisy. The man wanted a different life for his family..... he wanted The American Dream.

The man and his wife had come to this country from Naples, Italy.  They stood on a ship and cried as they passed the Statue of Liberty, knowing that the streets of their new country were paved with gold and filled with opportunity.  All the man had to do was work hard and one day he would own a small piece of those golden streets.  After their adventure crossing the Atlantic, the man and his wife didn't notice that the streets of their new country weren't made of gold. All they wanted was a place to call home.  They found a small apartment that had too many steps up to their door and too few windows to let in fresh air and sunlight.  "Not to worry," said the wife.... "There isn't much fresh air here, and precious little sunlight. This will do for now, but not for always."

When his family's life in The City became too dangerous for their children, the man bought a piece of property in the borough of Queens, away from The City, away from the dirt, the crowds, the noise.  Because the man had worked extra hard and saved every dollar possible, he was able to buy two plots of land instead of just one.  He and his wife would have more children.... they wanted a big house with enough property to plant trees and flowers and vegetables. The man's wife wanted windows.... lots of windows.... she wanted to be able to see their gardens from every room in the house.  Queens was far enough away from The City.... they would have fresh air, they would have sunlight.

The man built their house in the middle of the two adjoining lots...... he dug out a basement and poured the cement foundation..... and then he started building up. On the first floor, there was an enclosed front porch with windows from one side to the other, a living room with more windows, a dining room with even more windows, a huge kitchen with two walk-in pantries, each of them the size of a small room, and each of the pantries had a large window.  On the second floor, he built three bedrooms and a big bathroom. On the third floor, three more bedrooms. When the top three floors were finished, the man started working in the basement of the house...... two bedrooms, a bathroom, an eat-in kitchen, a wine cellar, and a small living room.  The man wanted to build his house once, build it right, build it big enough for the children he already had, the children they hoped to have, and the grandchildren in their future.

In the 1920s, the man built this house for his family...... and his wife had more children to fill up those bedrooms.  The house became a home, their piece of the American pie. From the wine cellar in the basement to the three bedrooms on the third floor, the man's house was a living breathing being all its own.  When everyone in the family left the house for Sunday Mass, they would wave to the house, telling it they'd be back soon.  "After Mass, we'll stop at Stallone's for bread and cake... and then we'll be right home after that."  And the house seemed to understand. It stood proud when its family left, just as proud as it did when the family was inside the sunlight-filled rooms. "This home needs our family. The house needs us to live, to breathe, to be. Without all of us here, it's just a house.... when we're here, it's our home."   And the man's wife said "This will do for now, and it will do for always."                  

By the time the 1930s ended, they had buried two of their children, leaving them with eight. In the 1940s, their four sons went off to join the Navy, the Army, the Marines. The old man walked around and around his house, praying for peace.  Three of his sons came home, one was buried at Pearl Harbor.  During the late 1940s and the 1950s, their three sons and their four daughters all got married, giving them the grandchildren they had hoped for. The house was filled to the brim with the man's children and their children. Sunday dinners and holiday dinners..... everyone came to the man's house..... the adults ate in the dining room, the children ate in the kitchen. The house was a living breathing being, hugging each family member as they walked in the door.  "Family.... this is my family," said the man. "Family is always family, no matter what happens."                                        

In the 1960s, divorce divided up parts of the man's family. The old man didn't understand his children's view of divorce. You had problems? Fix them. More problems? Fix those too... family is family, no matter what.  Older grandchildren had joined the Army, the Navy, the Marines.... they went to Vietnam to fight. The old man didn't understand this war and he would walk around and around his house and pray for the war to end.  All of his grandsons came home.  In the early 1970s, some of the 'divorced' grandchildren drifted away from the house the man built.  The old man didn't blame the grandchildren.... he blamed that thing called divorce.   "Family is always family.... they'll come back when they're ready."

Before the 1970s ended, the old man died suddenly, without warning. Everyone went back to the old man's house for the funeral.  After the burial, the old man's wife stopped going down the stairs to the first floor of her house. The kitchen was too lonely without the old man playing cards while she cooked. The bedroom was lonely too, but at least she could put her head on her pillow and sleep. The hours of sleeping erased the loneliness.  Her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren came to see her every week. Her oldest daughter lived with her and took care of her mother and the house.....  but the old man's wife died less than six months later. The doctor couldn't find a cause. The family said she died of a broken heart.  The old man and his wife had been married for nearly 73 years.

In the 1980s, the oldest daughter lived in her parents' house with her youngest brother. They took care of Papa's house.... and Papa's yard..... and the memory of both Papa and Mama.  Their brothers and sisters came to the house with their children and their grandchildren.... for Sunday dinners and holiday dinners.  Everyone ate in the dining room...... even the little kids, who didn't know that their own parents once ate at the "children's table" in the kitchen.  The brothers and sisters spent most of the family dinners talking about the 1930s, the 1940s, the 1950s..... and all of them agreed that the 1960s was the worst decade for the family.  "We're still family.... that never changes."

In the 1990s, the old man's neighborhood began to change. The neighborhood had really been changing for twenty years, but no one in the old man's house seemed to notice.  No one wanted to leave Papa's house.  The original home owners in that neighborhood had passed away, and their children didn't want the old homes. They wanted to live either in The City where everything was at their fingertips, or they wanted a house out on The Island, where everything was peaceful and quiet.

One by one, the old man's children began to pass away. Everyone went back to the old man's house after each funeral. They talked about the 1930s, the 1940s, the 1950s....

The old man's grandchildren began to move out of the state. They didn't want to live in The City, and they didn't even want to live on The Island. They wanted out. Warmer weather. No snow in the winter.  When the house next to the old man's home was robbed three times in three months, the nieces and nephews of the old man's oldest daughter convinced her to move. Out of the old man's house, out of the state. Warmer weather, no snow, no robberies.

The old man's oldest daughter packed up Papa's house with help from nieces and nephews.  She asked everyone to take what they wanted, as long as they'd "take care of it always."  Furniture and household items were shipped to Virginia, to Texas, to Arizona, to The Island.  What wasn't wanted, or needed, was sold at auction. The oldest daughter took her most favorite things to Florida, to her new home with one of her nephews.  "His house is very big, very nice. But it's too new. There are no memories here. It will have to do for now."

The oldest daughter celebrated her 100th birthday this year.  Everyone in the old man's family who could make the trip south was there when she blew out her birthday candles and made a wish.

What did you wish for?  What did you wish for?!

"I wished that we were all back in Papa's house, in the 1930s, the 1940s, the 1950s."

The old man's house is empty now, and has been for nearly five years. No lights glowing, no cars parked in the driveway. The grass needs cutting, the trees need trimming, the windows need washing.  When the house was up for sale, no one wanted it. "Too old... no open concept.... too many windows. And who needs two kitchens?"  The house looks sad, lost, abandoned. The few grandchildren and great-grandchildren who still live in better parts of Queens will drive by it from time to time, just to take a look.  They tell their children stories of the 1950s, the 1960s, the 1970s. They wave to the house as they drive away.  The house no longer stands proud, but it is still the old man's house.

What did you wish for?!

"I wished that we were all back in Papa's house........."