I always make resolutions — usually privately — and never actually accomplish anything. One year I was going to learn Danish. Nope, didn’t happen. (nope, skete ikke). One year I was going to stop procrastinating. Again, nope, didn’t happen). Exercise? Nope.
This year I’m doing something different. I simply want to learn a new thing each month. New things like how to parallel park, how to make gnocchi, and more about our personal finances. I also want to take this year to finally organize the house — declutter, I suppose — by tackling a different part of the house each month. This month it is the basement since we are halfway there anyway with the remodel.
I don’t know how many times I wrote that address on letters and packages nor how many times getting a letter or package from that address made me very happy. Hundreds probably. I do know, however, that I’ll never write it on a letter again nor will I ever receive a letter from that address. (Although, in all honesty, it has been years since I did send a letter to 17 Airedale Drive.)
You see, it has been sold, or I’m fairly certain it has been sold. Yes, a Google search confirms it has been sold. I suspected as much when I received Jeremy’s Christmas letter this year and saw that Pat, his mother, moved into his house after a 6 month stay in a hospital.
Jeremy and his family lived at 17 Airedale Drive when I first met them. 17 Airedale Drive was where I stayed during my visits to England between 1974 and 1979. I have a lot of wonderful memories of that house with its beautiful rose garden in front and the front door with the stained glass window. I remember sharing Jeremy’s room with Sue and, on another visit sleeping in the tiny bedroom in front. I remember the kitchen with the tiny pass-through door to the dining room and the front lounge area with the comfy furniture. I remember the back garden where I had my first bread, cheese and wine meal.
So today I found myself Googling 17 Airedale Drive to see if it had been sold and saw that Google Street View was implemented along Airedale Drive. I’d been waiting for this — it was not in place when I wrote my entry about Google Street View in my neighborhood. I wanted to see what 17 Airedale Drive looked like now.
I sort of wish I hadn’t though. Jack’s roses are gone. A side addition was built — probably to expand the kitchen. But perhaps that was there in 2002 when we visited Pat. The back garden looks nice though — but the mural Jeremy painted on the garage doors is gone.
So someone else is living at 17 Airedale Drive. Someone is making their own memories in that house. Do they, I wonder, ever stop and think about the memories already made there? Probably not. And that’s okay.
Another house dream. This time I awoke in a strange bedroom — the four of us were sleeping in our bed, like the old days when we semi-practiced “the family bed”. I remember getting up and saying to the kids — “you’re too big for the family bed. You need to move into your own rooms” and walking them down the hall to their new bedrooms.
Andrew’s was right next to our bedroom and I pointed at the closed door and “said that’s your room”. Clare’s was harder to find, but then I remembered it was at the end of the hall. We walked in and noted it was small, but she’d be able to fit her furniture in it.
I walked back to Andrew’s room and saw that the previous owners left all the furniture, including a bed with sheets and blankets and a large console TV. Andrew was pleased with the TV and didn’t mind sleeping on someone else’s bed.
When we walked downstairs a house party was being thrown for us. My mom was in the kitchen cooking and supervising while friends and neighbors either helped out or enjoyed each others’ company. I can’t say I recognized anyone but my mom, but in the dream I seemed to know them.
Suddenly I realized we’d moved and I ran outside to take a photo of the new house to send to my mom (forgetting she was at the party). When I looked at the house I was disappointed. It was not as nice as our old house, and seemed smaller from the outside. It actually looked like a two story beach house — weathered shingles and all. Walking on the small lot, I noticed the grass was stiff and sparse and the soil was mostly sand. It could have been a house at the beach, except there was no real water anywhere — except for a run-off pond in a neighbor’s back yard. We had bought an ugly beach house in the middle of an ugly subdivision.
Walking back into the house I noted that the kitchen was bigger than ours and exclaimed, “Yay! Counter space.”
There were nooks and crannies in the house but not fun ones. One was a room that could have been on a Navy ship that held nothing but a painted metal staircase leading to the fuse box. It also was damp, with water dripping from the ceiling. We found some old science experiments near the fuse box. The floor was moist sand.
At one point I realized we’d bought the house from a woman who used to be married to a friend of Dean’s and I remembered having been in the house when she owned it and lived in it with her two children. I remembered having been in the kids’ rooms. I wondered why she’d left so much furniture in the house, but after knowing she’d owned it, I felt better about living there.