The Family Tree

Peering out the window this morning as I sipped my coffee, I noticed that an 8-10 foot long, hefty dead branch had snapped off of a tree in the back yard and had come to rest on the power line that extends between our house and the pole.  The power line hadn't come down, thank goodness, but the branch was suspended precariously between the tree trunk and the line.  "That's...lucky," I mused out loud, considering that we had just had a back yard full of family members only two days ago.  I decided that was a crisis narrowly evaded.

That tree, it turns out, was a beloved staple of my back yard, which was my grandparents' back yard when my older cousins were growing up.  As I was schmoozing with relatives at our soiree, my cousin asked me, "How's the tree?"  Glancing around at the five prominent trees nearby, I followed his gaze to the stout maple standing in the middle of the yard.  He marveled at its growth since he last saw it years ago, reflecting that it was a piece of living history; his sneakers had scudded up the trunk on many, many journeys into the sturdy branches as a kid.  As he studied the tree, he asked about the maintenance of it--was it hard to take care of?  Me, being about as opposite from a arboriculturist as I can be, murmured something about having to cut off a few dead branches here and there, but nothing special.  It was a tree long-established in the yard...doesn't it kind of take care of itself?  My cousin wasn't really looking at it from an arboricultural perspective, either.  But, he recognized the tree, and his connection to it, as fragile, despite it's relative strength and age.  He was thankful, I think, that this fleck of memory was still standing, in all its glory, in the yard in which he had experienced ultimate childhood joy.  It was then that I began to realize the ultimate responsibility that I now have, as the owner of my grandparents' house.  I am the maintainer of memory.

When I moved into this house two years ago, I had already begun piecing together a mental quilt of memories, gathered from my various childhood experiences in rooms throughout the house--here is the fourth-stair-from-the-top that always squeaked when Grandma came up for bed, telling me that all was safe and she was only across the hall from me through the remainder of the night.  Here is the desk where Grandpa taught me how to balance a checkbook at the age of eight.  Here is the counter where Grandma opened the horse-shaped cookie jar for a little snack after lunch.  Here is the den where Grandma prayed her daily rosary (and where many matches in Pong took place on the Atari).  The history of the house, as I had experienced it, pieced together nicely in my first couple years of living here.

Throughout the reunion weekend, I collected bits and pieces of information about the memory and history that my house holds.  Conversations with cousins, aunts, and uncles offered some more layers to my understanding of collective memory, and showed the fragility of a family, just like the old maple.  Here is the yard that was home to wiffle ball games in the summer humidity.  Here is the spot under the staircase where my uncles would secretly talk to their girlfriends on the phone, the phone number for a certain "Paula" etched into the bottom of the painted stairs.  Here is the bedroom window the boys would tap on so my aunt would let them in the house after curfew.  Here is the living room where a heated argument peaked with my grandfather being shoved across the space by his angry son, signaling the beginning of a lifelong chasm between father and son, dreams and reality, moral dignity and violent temper.  Here is where the two recliners stood, side by side, my grandmother sitting quietly, pensively in hers while the other remained empty for two years before she finally returned home, as well.  I watched my family members wander through the house, their personal memories adding color and music to the walls, emotions sinking into the wooden floors and drywall.  I sensed the connection each person had with this space, and the eventual bittersweet separation they all experienced as we closed the old storm door behind the last guest.

This space is mine now, but in a way, is not totally mine.  The floors that I sweep (occasionally) have only belonged to generations of my family since the house has been built.  Before my own children's toddler toes were the tiny feet of my cousins and me before that, and my father and his siblings before that.  I try to remember, on behalf of my family, all that took place here.  I try to honor those memories by taking care of the house, from the fourth-from-the-top squeaky stair to the decaying branches of the maple tree.  I wouldn't say the house is always in tip-top shape, and I sometimes feel self-conscious, like my grandmother is looking down at the mess with eyebrows raised.  I try, though.  It takes frequent calculated efforts, especially in the case of this weekend, when we tried to prepare our house (despite the opposing efforts of my children) for thirty-eight people to have dinner here.

Many of my relatives made a point to tell me that the house looks great.  Of course, after weeks of cleaning, painting, and organizing, it felt gratifying to hear it.  But I think my greatest satisfaction was watching the house fill up my family, as my family filled up the house, the basement, the yard.  I saw my cousins fall in love with the house, and my grandmother especially, all over again simply by stepping inside, or looking at the trees.  I felt fulfilled watching generations of my family re-establishing connections with each other in a place, and because of a place, that is everyone's common denominator--a place that I am able to love and cultivate every day.  I know this house is at the most basic level a structure of planks and floorboards, screws and nails.  But at its highest potential, this house is a sacred space, a prayer of thanksgiving for over fifty years of a family's commitment to each other, and a source of fulfillment for those who come inside.

It's possible that some day this house will no longer belong to my family.  It's possible that all that has happened here will have to be preserved in our hearts and minds, rather than a physical interaction between family and home.  Until this house is no longer in my possession, I promise to continue developing what was started here long before I was born.  I'll try my best to preserve my family's memories so that they may access them more clearly each time they visit.  I'll take advantage of the love that envelops me daily as I live out my life here.  I will maintain the house as it has maintained all of us, day by day, gathering by gathering.  I'll carry this part of my family's history like an Olympic torch and trust that our history here will feed and fulfill all future families inside these walls.  It's my responsibility, and it's a gift.