Second Home in Indiana

I just returned from a few days in the Midwest, that part of the country that startles you as you’re driving toward it and all of a sudden everything you can possibly see in any direction is FLAT. The first time I saw it I was sixteen-years-old, riding with my family on our way to move there. I don’t remember what I thought, but it has been a shock every time I’ve done it since. Makes the old Appalachians of Pennsylvania look big.

We had family to visit, and on the first day, we drove around the town for memories’ sake.

There was sadness, mostly. In the 1970’s, Marion was a growing town with varied industry. Since then, the industries have slowly. slowly left town or closed completely, so empty parking lots are pocked with weeds growing up through the lines where cars used to park. Windows are broken on the building windows and if there has been enough time, green ivy and other plants snake their way through to the roof.

The factories are one thing, but it was disheartening to see homes that must have been completely abandoned for years. Most of them were wooden, and the once clean paint was chipping away in big chunks. Porches–some with the furniture–were sagging and slowly falling closer to the earth. Cement steps were chipping away. And the ever-present green weeds were replacing the houses as though no person would ever return, and the weeds could grow without worry.

I learned Marion’s population had dropped to half of what it had been when I graduated from high school. No wonder, the houses were dying. They were dying of emptiness.

And yet, my family was there, and there were pretty houses and shops where people still cared and were trying hard to make Marion a nice place to live. You could stop in front of these places like my brother and sister-in-law’s, and be astounded by the mounds of colorful zinnias and daisies and see the soft green lawn that had been tended carefully for many years.

Many things had changed, and yet, others stayed the same.

My brother-in-law, Michael, had lived near Marion, but he was taken too early from the world ten years ago. We visited Pat, his widow, and as I walked into the house, I could almost hear Mike’s teasing laugh, but I felt his presence, and a few times, could have sworn I saw him coming into the kitchen from the hallway. Sarcasm. Mike and I had a great game with that, and his energy seemed to fill the home so much that I got distracted from the conversation at times. As I stepped out on the front porch to leave, I gazed up at the beautiful tree he had planted thirty or more years ago, and I stumbled on the second step.

Okay, Michael, I know I called your tree a stick and told you it would never grow, as it has.

You get the last laugh, Mike, because I have a stick tree in my yard, and I look at it every day and hear your laugh all the way from Marion, Indiana with love.

Part Dos: This Really Old House

This is the house on Filbert Street that everyone walks by without a glance. I look at it every time I walk by to get my car and each day there is a change. The balcony sags a little more, a few windows are boarded up, and one day, I saw the beige camp chair! The next day there was a man working in the basement. It’s a city mystery. Two years ago, I would not have given this house a second look.
(“Oh, it’s condemned. Yuck!”) 
Now…I just hope someone buys it and fixes it up.
This really old house
Falling down, but there’s a chair!

This (really) Old House

The house I bought last year is over one hundred years old, but it was taken care of and renovated. It’s on the southwest side of the city they now call “SoWe.” The people on my block try to take care of things like trash and mowing and cleaning up porches. This street is so eclectic, so many different colors and styles and people. I don’t have a front porch, but I always try to say hello to everyone. (Yes! I have a stoop!)

Just across the street to the south is a large red home built sideways. The front doors face north, and it is condemned, for any number of reasons. The second floor balcony is beginning to fall, but I can see the ornate white gingerbread trim. I believe it is one of those city houses that fell on hard times. But when I look at it, somehow, I see it in its prime, glistening in the sun.

Just a week ago, I noticed a folding camp chair on its porch. Squatter? No. for the next day the Bilco doors to the basement were open, and a workman was going in and out doing godknowswhat. Nothing looked different when he left, but the next day, he was back again. I am hopeful. Maybe someone cares enough to fix the house.

I don’t look at these city houses the way I would have two years ago. There are people who don’t care, but there are also people who do. If you asked me what bothers me the most about where I live, I would have to say, trash. I pick it up, not just in front of my house, but around the corner and down to my garage. I even keep a white trash bag in the garage in case I need it. Sometimes, people look at me funny: “Is that woman really picking up trash?” Yes. Yes, I am.