The Summit House

Real white brick and a mansard roof. 

French blue shutters 

framing tall, stately windows. 

Turn-crank handles to whip closed 

when storms rolled in 

across the Valley.

Bedroom window seats for Barbies, 

Shaving cream cap chairs and Kleenex box cars

that made us scream with laughter.

Roller skating on the

cold, gray cement.

Practicing ping pong 

for tournaments at the armory.

Canning jars on an old metal shelf.

Mom’s romas and peaches;

Grammie’s chow chow in neat rows.

Narrow-necked glass bottles with naked grapes and purple juice.

A basement door that stuck tight, 

but was never locked. 

Sneaking in, sneaking out.

Five of us slapping solitaire cards

around a slate coffee table.

Take that! Cursing darn! or shucks!

Turning dials, pushing rods,

ramming pucks into goals.

Smothers Brothers lame jokes

Lawrence Welk colored finery (but not on our old black and white). Magazines, newspapers, books

Altogether in our own literate worlds.

A shelty curled up, dreaming of sheep,

under floor-length sheers, 

partly hidden; ears perked.

Lunchtime naps for Dad,

sharing apples with his dog.

The same sofa cradling

students post-semester, 

home for Christmas, 

or sleeping-off summer shifts.

Mom’s perch, after both-knee surgery,

directing Christmas dinner prep

in the nearby kitchen.

The ding of the clothes dryer

Just outside in a garage filled with 

mower, spreader, tools;

bikes, balls, bats, and clubs.

One car inside, blocking 

a closet full of paint cans.

One car on the spare lot

for driveway hoops or Hopscotch.

Folding chairs out back,

under oak and maple shade, 

watching glorious sunsets

into Appalachia.

Patio pots of coral geraniums.

Picnicking, fireflies, evening coffee

Rolling in grass.

Sleeping out under shooting stars

with a best friend.

Reading in the tent 

on the spare lot,

one prolific summer:

Gone with the Wind, The Hobbit, 

and Lord of the Rings!

Mom’s fence-line garden,

with asparagus, Spring peas, 

tomatoes, green beans, and more.

Cow poops for fertilizer, 

so handy, but eeeewwww!

Dad’s collection of conifers:

Blue Spruce, Scot’s Pine,  

Douglas Fir, and more.

His late shelties, buried nearby. 

Neil and Randy.

My time in this house, in this yard, 

has come and gone with my childhood 

and my parent’s elder years.

New kids slam the doors,

blast the music, 

take too-long showers,

Invent new food combinations,

like Worcestershire sauce on peas.

New kids play Hide-and-Seek 

or Kick-the-Can, 

build snow people, hollow out tunnels, 

or go sledding with today’s neighbors.

New parents work hard, 

balance chores, 

raise a family, 

and live their dream 

in this very same house.

This piece is joyfully inspired by the recent sale of my childhood home to a new family of five who are almost the same ages as we were when we built the house in 1969. Enough time and emotional distance have now passed for me to look back lovingly, and without the sense of loss I felt the first time it changed families in 2007.