Families

The week I moved into the first home I ever owned was the same year my Grandmother had passed away. My life had forever changed and I was feeling lost and having a hard time getting things done. A friend from work graciously offered to come and help me finish painting and I accepted. She came over on the first night I was to stay at my new home, and the neighborhood welcomed my arrival with a police raid. I watched in horror as plainclothes cops, guns drawn, were hiding behind bushes and peeking around the corner of neighboring houses. Their target, the big tan house directly across the street. This I could not figure out, because as far as I knew, an old lady named Bev and an assortment of other people lived there. They didn't look like criminals, whatever criminals look like.

Bev later told me she had seen unmarked police cars checking out their house and knew something was up, so they had moved out a bunch of boxes and put them in storage before the inevitable bust happened. What was in those boxes she didn't say.

From what I can tell, Bev has several adult children and a couple of grandchildren living there. Her son takes care of her and is the busiest body I have ever seen. He is a kind caring soul who mows their yard, my yard, and several others in the neighborhood no charge. He shovels my snow, blows my leaves, and never asks a thing. I give him $20 bucks when I can spare it, and he is happy to have it.

I have heard many loud arguments coming from that house. The sisters that live there have no shame when it comes to letting the neighbors hear their quarreling. There is more coming and going than a McDonald's drive-through. The local animal control officer calls them "The Clan".

A few weeks ago the ambulance came. I watched as they took Bev away, with the two or three daughters scurrying around like ants, moving vehicles (there are always at least four or five in their driveway), packing bags for Bev, and finally racing off to the hospital. The son stayed behind. He doesn't get along well with the sisters.

While Bev was gone, something changed at that house. Messages appeared on the front windows, written with some new fangled, very colorful window markers. Messages like "Come home soon Grandma" and "Live Life with Love". "Smile".  There was a big heart drawn on the picture window.

Several days later Bev came home. She had suffered a minor stroke. It seems that this was a wake up call to the daughters, because they changed from doing nothing at the house to doting on her day in and day out. I watch as they walk their mother, one on each side, down the front porch stairs and slowly take her to their large grassy yard to sit in the sun. They polish her nails and brush her long gray hair. They no longer yell at each other.

The son stopped by a couple days after Bev came home. He told me how lost he felt while she was in the hospital. His routine of fixing her breakfast first thing in the morning, giving her a bath, making her lunch and dinner, and putting her to bed had been interrupted. He didn't know what to do without having his mother there to care for. I understood. I felt the same way when Grandma left me. Sometimes I still do.

Yesterday a new birdfeeder appeared in their yard. I imagine Bev sitting in her chair, looking out the window at her birds. And a wooden horse-drawn carriage now sits on the front porch. Everything looks cared for, loved.

No longer do I hear harsh angry words coming from that house. In their place are words of love. Three middle-aged people struggling to take care of a mother they may soon lose. Perhaps those words on the window, written by a young Granddaughter, had some magic in them. "Live Life With Love."