White clapboards and wooden slats nailed across double windows peek through a veil of house-high ferns, maples, and elms. Leaves caress the places where shutters may once have been. Along the front in red and white reads a sign: Private Property No Trespassing. A vacant driveway sits to the south, marked off by a heavy chain, its endpoints hidden by foliage.
Before this, an elderly man thought about turning the key in the lock to protect the home from vandals. He decided it made no difference. The house was empty of people and things, filled only with memories, most of which he wanted to do without.
Before this, the man’s son closed the door as he said goodbye to his parents. The son hoisted his army duffle over his shoulder and descended the wooden stairs, marveling at how two thin posts held up the porch cover. He thought about this house often in the jungles of Vietnam. He thought about the soft light of the living room lamps, the scent of his mother’s home-baked bread, moist-meat Thanksgiving turkey with crispy skin, and blueberry pie. He thought about this as he left the latrine one spring morning, before the sniper’s bullet hit him in the back and he fell forward into the soft, muddy earth.
Before this, a young sailor carried his bride across the threshold. They bought the house—brand-spanking new (they were the first residents)—from the developer’s widow. The GI Bill guaranteed his mortgage and his college education at the state university. He worked at the quarry and beamed at the birth of his son, whom they named Junior. She used the sewing machine she received as a wedding present, a hand-cranked black metal Singer, to make flowered curtains for the living room and kitchen. Sunflowers were her favorite.
Before this, a developer chose a spot of land with young maples and elms for a fairy-tale cottage he knew would appeal to newlyweds. He built the house with its bright yellow kitchen and master bedroom in the back, a dining room and parlor in the front in the summer of 1940. He added a small porch at the last minute. Folks always liked sitting on a porch after dinner with their smokes and coffees. He spent considerable time planning the bathroom and decided to install it in a hallway that led from front to back. But few newlyweds had the resources to buy it, and he was not willing to barter for cattle, chickens, or eggs. It still stood empty as the draft called up his number.
Image by Paul Brennan from Pixabay – the start of construction on a new house. Just the wooden frame and piles of lumber.
literally stories 
The house as an historical record of the occupants/builders. No wonder that people reckon that houses have atmospheres, good or bad. Well built! thank you.
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Barbara
Getting so much in so few words is the triumph here. Difficult to get over with this topic, seen plenty, but here it was special.
Leila
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spiralling backwards in time but always with the happiness marred by heartache. I love the way that you have woven this together. It is in truth bitter sweet. Very well done. Thank you – dd
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All that a house may contain! Read it & there’ll be shifts in perspective with regard to many a dwelling. Beautiful & poignant.
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The persistence of ruins … of war … of loss. The story has a gentle sadness. Very nicely done.
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Barbara
Your story reminded me, in a reverse way, of the dwellings where I grew up: Apartment buildings and row houses if you were lucky. Monotonous. Mostly just blocks of concrete with tar roofs and no yards. We were more transient and made different memories. We were house poor, but people rich. On one block there might be forty families and one or two hundred people. Even if we didn’t like each other that much, there we were. Thanks for the memories of things that could have been. — Gerry
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Where have all the flowers gone, gone to soldiers one by one – when will they ever learn. My parents house was bought for about $3,000. They were fortunate that he worked in the defense industry, so my sister and I grew up with two parents. So many others were not so fortunate.
Now editor wants to move us to sunset city.
Good story. I can relate
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Well done. Great use of lists to compress and tell a story.
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My dad and I just talked today about a dilapidated shack on family property that his aunt will never tear down because her father was born there. This is a relatable and well-organized story. I like the line about the house now “filled only with memories.”
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Melancholy, poignant and vivid…. oddly nostalgic, despite the tragic story. Great idea how the time is structured, “Before this…..”
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