3479 High Street - Kathy

3479 North High Street

Kathy Heim

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as she inched past the red brick two-story still standing on the corner of Orchard Lane and North High.  It was her grandmother's house, the house her father and aunts called home, the place she felt cozy and loved as a little girl. An urge to once again walk through that front door and stand in the kitchen, breathe in the memories of roasted chicken and apple pie, touch the door handle of her father’s old room, and run her fingers over the stained banister took over.  A blanket of nostalgia took over, she turned her car around and drove up the driveway leading to the backyard, which was mostly a parking lot now. The garage was gone, however a tall oak was still standing, casting the same shadows she remembered as a little girl. 

The old, cracked sidewalks felt familiar as she neared the front porch.  Brick steps leading up to the lead glass front door stood sturdy and solid.  Visions of a pale green glider, snuggling with cousins and counting the cars, buses, and taxis flashed quickly in her mind. Such a sweet and innocent time. The music Peggy Sue’s Homecoming played in her mind as she tentatively turned the brass doorknob.  A used record store was now in front of her, and a pudgy older man with a white unkept beard introduced himself.  

“This used to be my grandmother’s house,” she told him and he graciously invited her to look around. The upstairs, where the bedrooms were, where she once spent the summer, where she spent hours upon hours watching the traffic, was now an apartment, could not be part of today’s tour down memory lane.  

What she saw was not in front of her. What she did see were memories: A recliner next to the grand fireplace, sitting on her grandmother’s lap and pinching her old hands watching the veins pop up and then slowly lower,  playing with a lead glass bunny, gliding it over the scrolling wool carpet,  watching rainbows cast from the chandelier in the dining room. Visions of her Meme, mom and aunts cooking in the crowded kitchen shooing kids outside and out of the way made her smile. Flashbacks sparked images of talking on the old black corded telephone which sat in an alcove at the bottom of the stairs and she wondered how many times had that phone rang to wake up her grandfather with a medical emergency, or used by her father to ask girls out on dates? 

Coming back to the present, she ran her hand over the solid oak banister remembering stories her father told of him jumping off the landing and getting in trouble.  Stories of patients ringing the front doorbell to get help from her grandfather. She could imagine her grandmother waking him up and hustling next door to his office to assist as his nurse.  

The old gentleman left her alone to reminisce and gave her time to soak the house in. When her memories ran out, and when she felt the magic start to wean, she thanked the old man and walked out of the house and to her car. Not knowing if she’d ever see this home again, she gave it one last glance, wiped a tear from her eye and turned south on High Street.