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Ode To a Friend
by Jenny L. Gordon

I have inhabited block 45, of the James McGregor Jr. addition, since the day I was built in 1886. In the century plus, of which I've lived, I've housed many different owners. My colors have changed from a mustard yellow, to kaki green, then to plain white, and now to it's current light gray with emerald green shutters.

I've gone from holding one widow to corralling several large families. I've never stood empty for long. Except for those few years at the end of the eighties and the beginning of the nineties. I thought my time was coming to an end. I would surely be bulldozed down like the rest of my friends. Out with the old in with the new. I could not complain though because me and my partner to the right had lived long valuable lives. It was sad none the less. I sat and I waited. Putting up with the pain of rejection day after day. I was too small, too stinky, or too old. No one looked at me for what I could be or what I had been. Too small? How could a house so small hold a family of ten before my back addition was even built. This family did not scoff at my size. I had totally given up and welcomed the wrecking ball with open arms. Until one night, around eight o'clock. A small ford escort drove slowly back and forth in front of me. I was sure that whoever it was, was lost. I could give them directions if they'd only ask. I knew a lot about this small town. You do not have to move about to know. You just have to listen to the echoes through the valley.

After about three passes the car stopped in front of me. Out stepped a young girl. I gave a small sigh of disgust. It was just another kid come to marvel at the scary haunted house. "Go away," I said, "what do you want with me I am old. Leave me be. Do not gawk at me and do not imagine things in my windows. And don't you dare throw rocks. I've done nothing to you. Just let me rest."

In my wallowing I noticed her approach. She was not listening or if she was she did not let me know. This girl was not scared nor did she hold rocks in her hands. She scanned high up into my gables and then moved slowly downward to my foundation. Then she slowly walked up to peer inside me. If I could have closed my windows I would have. I couldn't take any more ridicule and winced as her tinny hands touched my window. But she did not step back in disgust. I could feel her energy spread quickly from her hands, up the window, and through my old plaster lathe walls. This energy brought me back to life. I knew then I had nothing to fear. She stepped back and smiled. Then looking up at me she winked and whispered, "don't worry I'll be back." With this she walked backward to her car and drove away. Still looking at me out the window of her car.

The next morning I awoke hoping to see the little blue car. I was beginning to think it was all just a dream. Then I saw the agent walking up the sidewalk with the girl and her husband. Of course right away the insulate agent said, " The house stinks a bit because he's been closed up so long."

It is bad enough my basement is much like stinky feet of you humans. Without having him advertise this to every client. The man stepped inside and winced at my smell. So I looked to the girl hoping to save the bit of dignity my walls still held. I was grateful that she did not wince or make fun of me. She bounced around from room to room. There was a spark in her eyes that I had not seen since the day I was built. She had plans. I could tell this. She did not care that I was smelly and old. She knew I was meant for her and her family. Now her husband was not so sure. But I knew she would not let me down. Her mind was set. She assured him it was meant to be. But he did not understand this. He said, "you have not looked at any other houses yet."

"I do not have to. I know this is it." She said with certainty.

He shook his head and smiled. Though still dismayed by the smell. I could tell he loved her and I would not be empty for long.

Three weeks later they were both working hard on my interior. He built a vanity, a desk, and shelves while she painted and scrubbed. The first year not much had changed. She had gotten rid of most of the smell and he had constructed a bathroom downstairs. I didn't care what they did just as long as I could feel their feet on my floors and hear their voices in my rooms.

A year later though I felt like a new house. I had a different paint job and a new three seasons porch to my side. The smell was still a problem though and I was more than a little embarrassed by it. He would bring it up often. She would try to play it down but I could tell when company arrived she too was not too happy about the odor. He tried to help by digging the hillside out behind me. The air helped a bit but I'm afraid it is part of me. Yes I am old and when it rains I am stinky. I can't help it.

She's spent hours adding color to me. She was not happy with the plan white and brown paneled walls. She'd have none of that. Actually her husband says she's obsessed. She must paint. I have plaid walls, flowered walls, cloudlike walls, triangle sponge painted walls, and her latest the striped walls. She stays up all hours of the night painting me. I am her canvass. I'll never forget the time she laid her head on the paint can lid and it stuck there. I laughed as she tried to get it off and then washed her hair three times trying to get the green out. This did not detour her. She is like a mad woman when it comes to color. Sometimes she scares me with her wild ideas but I love her because she cares. She will never leave me to look old and dumpy.

He, however, thinks she spends way too much time on me and comes downstairs to say, "Come to bed it will still be there tomorrow." Sometimes he even has to take her sponges away. And I am glad of this because I am old and I need my rest. They have not only blessed my walls and windows they have filled my rooms with a dog, a cat, and a beautiful baby girl. The little girl is not such a baby now. She is at the age where I have to quietly warn her mother she has found the markers again. Like her mother she loves color. In my kitchen I keep track of her growth on my wall.

I've noticed they are gone more now than they used to be and I hear talk of them moving. Sometimes she curses me because I am not clean enough or she has to paint my outside again. My wood just barely holds the paint in a few spots. After you've lived as long as I, you'll have trouble holding paint too.

A deck was added after a long debate this spring. He said, "we will not be here much longer why add it?" She says, " I know but what if that changes. I think a deck would be a nice addition." He gives in and she smiles. They both worked together and I have to say it makes me look pretty spiffy for my age of 110. I now have some sort of hope that they will stay.

What will happen to me and my yard if they go. Will the next owner even care? I worry when they talk of homes with basements. They have to know if I could I would give them a basement just so they would not leave me. But sadly I can't. As with everything in these crazy humans lives, it must keep moving and changing. I don't know that I can keep up with these times anymore. As she sits in my living room at 2:15 this morning. I am consoled. I know she still loves me because she is worried about how the hail, from the threatening storm, will damage me. She prays for me and the neighboring houses. I've always known she cares. But like most I need to be reassured once in a while.

The storm has now commenced and she goes back upstairs to bed. I whisper, hoping she will hear, "Sleep well my friend. I will protect you and your family and whatever you choose to do I will never forget what you have done for me."

About the author:
I have lived in the Marquette, McGregor Iowa area all 37 years to my life. Growing up in this little river town is probably the best thing that could have happened to me. It is beautiful here. One of my favorite jobs was working at the McGregor Public Library. I was the childrens Librarian there for 7 yrs. A writers group still meets there weekly. Though I now work just across the street at the chiropractic clinic I look out the window daily with found memeries of my time spend in the group. It was at one of these group meetings that this story was born. I still live in the house I wrote about. And I know if I ever leave it I will miss it immensly.