A Muted, But Real, Sadness.
I received an E-mail, recently, from my cousin in Detroit. He told us our old homestead had been demolished some time ago. 5012 McClellan is now just a vacant lot number. Many of the houses in that neighborhood have been long gone. Too bad!
However, when it is your home that has disappeared, it becomes a silent, yet tumultuous, event. The past erupts in the form of a million vibrant memories.
Third house from the corner. East side of McClellan and North of E. Warren.
Sadness is an emotion we all have. We try to keep it in the cellar of our brain, parked in a dark corner, hidden out of sight and mood. We spar with it occasionally when we are confronted with minor problems or situations that we try to avoid. We usually overcome them and return the sorrow to its proper niche. But there are times when sadness will not be deterred. It bulls its way to the front and center stage of our brain. That would be directly behind our forehead.
Any anatomy student knows that area, more familiarly, as the Mechanical Room where there are all kinds of contrivances that helps us stay on a level tack. There is a reservoir of salty dew, just waiting to be dribbled out, a few drops at a time. There are pumps, and valves and levers that have to be opened with our emotions. The closest draining canal leads to our eyeballs,,,,where the tears may simply ooze out, one or two at a time. But there are times when the floodgates open, and we let them flow with no attempt to curb them.
When the reservoir runs dry, sadness retreats.
The demolition of the house does not inspire a gusher of tears. But with the diminishment of the memories and the history of that house, everything will fade away.
But isn’t that what life is all about? What goes around, comes around. Some day, someone will build a home in that vacant area, and maybe a pyramid of new memories will begin.
I am reminded of that incredible final scene in the movie, "Citizen Kane." Who, What, Why, is "Rosebud."
I can see myself at the age of 10, running down the sidewalk, raising my brand new, "Western Flyer Sled" like a banner, throwing it, violently on the snow covered sidewalk, and then belly flopping on top of it, with all the panache I could muster. [[Maybe Orson Welles stole that idea from me.)
Life does not get better than that. and so I cling, tenaciously, to those memories.