Moving on

It is human nature to be apprehensive to change, because after all such a word is symbolic of the many stages of our lives which we cannot control; namely birth, puberty, old age, and of course death (not to mention taxes, as the saying goes). Yet however present the inevitability of change maybe be, most people fear moving through the stages of life and prefer not to dwell on the eventual destination we all face. Unfortunately, sometimes dwelling is unavoidable.

From the beginning of thought mankind has struggled with these question of mortality. The question of why? Nothing has changed in that regard, besides the prospective answers provided throughout history. Countless religions were formed around these questions, from the ancient Egyptians to the doctrines of The First Council of Constantinople to the books of Scientology from L. Ron Hubbard. Yet it can be argued that nothing has entirely set the human mind at ease when the question of fate arises, and regardless of how often the question arises, what really puzzles me is not that the ever-present question is unanswerable but that the dark question can effect my memories and change them entirely.

This bothersome reality came to my attention again last weekend during a trip home to Ohio. I had gone back for several reasons: to see my mother on Mother's Day, to get away a from the big city, and to party; Yet none of these aspects of my trip (which were all successfully obtained goals) effected me as much as the impending departure of leaving the place where I grew up and migrating back to my new home here in New York. I had spent Sunday afternoon at my home with my two brothers, my mother and father, and my grandmother, enjoying the company some hour and thirty minutes away from where I would be taking off the following morning at 6:25AM (far too early, I know). Because of the early start to my trip, it was decided Sunday evening then that I should return to Copley, Ohio, with my grandmother, who lives very close to the Akron airport, and stay with her for the evening before heading out.

Goodbye, goodbye. Kiss, kiss. Hug, hug.

The car-ride from my parents' home to my grandmother's home involved a lot of family history, as one might expect from a grandma, but our discussion soon revolved around the selling of my grandmother's home. This subject that has become a very touchy issue in my extended family. Her house had been built by my now-deceased grandfather, John, almost forty-five years ago in what was then a blossoming suburb of the blooming city of Akron. Akron, the city built from rubber trees. My grandfather, a chemist for several different tire companies (most notably BF Goodrich), had built a fantastic home with a large yard, four bedrooms, an enormous living room, modern decor, and ample area for children and grand children to grow up and play over the next four decades.

I spent a large portion of my childhood in my grandparents' house, growing, playing and learning. I built card houses in the shag carpet and played baseball beside the garden. I learned how to win an NBA championship in their driveway, sink a battleship in their den, and eat just enough turkey at Thanksgiving to fall asleep on the couch during Barry Sanders' second-half heroics in their living room, but this night in Copley my memories were gone. All I could do is walk around the empty house and think about the "FOR SALE" sign in the front yard, sitting at the bottom of our old sled-riding hill. There were no more family pictures on the walls, which had once been covered with smiles, frowns, and make-shift bunny ears over the now balding heads of then-younger relatives. The pictures had all been taken down, giving the house better saleability. You could say my memories were moving: "FOR SALE".

I had never thought so much about my grandfather as I did then. His chair in the living room was still there, but it would soon be as absent as he. I wondered what he would think about selling the house. He had never seemed too attached to possessions, maybe even more generous with gifts than he was quiet. Still, I couldn't help but feel his presence, and his disapproval. Then, of course, what his place was in the equation for the unattainable answer of the great question? After all, he the Godfather of this entire family of ours, spawning decades of influence on America's wellbeing. Or was he simply another creature drifting in and out of existence, now a memory being shipped to a different part of town?

You can't be mad at your grandmother though, that is just impossible, but the prospect of her moving on isn't easy, and neither is the prospect of memories gathering dust in a 9' by 9' storage space right outside of Canton. This tore on me all night, as I slept my last night at "Grandma's". It wasn't easy to fall asleep in a stranger's house, I thought. But, eventually, I did sleep. And, eventually, I did wake. And, eventually, I did make my flight.

That's moving on.