I used to be normal. I lived in a metropolitan area where I could wade through traffic like a duck through lily pads. I could identify the make of a vehicle by its horn. I knew just how to brush shoulders with hundreds of people on the way from the parking garage to my job without ever making eye contact. I always thought I was a city girl. But, my life changed its course forever the day I decided to visit the old home in Arrow Rock, MO.
Earnest Bradford owned a cottage in Arrow Rock in the 1880's. I won't tell you how many greats of a grandfather he is to me or you'd fall asleep. As a child, my parents would load us all into our old station wagon and we would visit the old home. In those days, Arrow Rock didn't look quite like it does today. Sure, some of the houses had been fixed up, but there were both houses and shacks that were showing their age.
I remember my mama saying, “If I could, I'd buy the old home and give it some much needed TLC.” I thought she was crazy! Back then I thought, “Who would want to live in that dumpy old shack?” Every time we visited Arrow Rock my mama would cry and tell us the story of the old home. My brother and I would sit in the backseat and roll our eyes. We were just killing time until we would stop at the general store and get an ice cream cone. I think those ice cream cones cast some spell over my destiny, though I can't prove it.
Ten years ago I got married. Eight years ago we had our first baby. Then, wouldn't you know it, I started feeling nostalgic. Every year my husband and I talked about visiting the old home, but there never seemed to be enough time. When our first child was five we took a family vacation to Arrow Rock. We enjoyed stepping back in time in a bed and breakfast with no cable and an old rotary phone on the end table. The first day we went down Main Street to see if there was still an ice cream parlor. We didn't see one, but we went back to our bed and breakfast with bags full of trinkets to gather dust when we went home.
The second day of our visit in Arrow Rock we walked by the old home. I cried as I told my children the same story that my mama told me. But, that didn't seem to be enough. “Wait a minute,” I said. “I wander if someone inside would be willing to let us peek in the windows.” The old home was a two story cottage with brown shake shingle siding. It was in terrible disrepair. Squirrels were jumping from the trees into the attic. The paint on the window frames was peeling. The sidewalk was treacherous. But, I was drawn to the house. I stumbled to the door and knocked.
The next door neighbor who just “happened to be” coming outside at that moment hollered over, “No one lives there, Honey. Can I help you with something?” I walked over to the woman and told her that my great, great (oh, never mind how many greats) grandfather used to live in this home. She took interest, and in turn told me of all the other folks who had lived there in the past thirty years.
“In fact,” she went on, “Miss Maude is in the nursing home now, but she is planning to sell that house. Her kids don't want to be bothered with the trouble of keeping it up.”
Something in her tone made me take offense to those children who didn't want to be bothered with the old home. Some seed which had been planted in my mind long ago suddenly sprang to life. On and whim, and totally without my husband's input, I said “I would love to buy this house! Can you give me the phone number of the owner or her children?”
Those two sentences – spoken without a care in the world – have added gray to my hair, wrinkles to my forehead, and years spent in marital counseling. But, I wouldn't change it for all the world. By buying the old home, I learned more about carpentry and firm foundations, good neighbors and wall-papering parties, drafty windows and fragrant wood stoves, community and hard work than I ever could have imagined in the city. More than that, I learned something about myself. I don't care to hustle and bustle. I like to make eye contact with strangers. I find joy in knowing the birthdays of everyone in town. I love to walk through the silent streets at night. I want my children to grow up in this quiet town. And, lastly, I love ice cream.
We now rent one of the buildings on Main Street and sell burgers, fries, and ice cream. I guess you could call us a Mom and Pop Store. I love meeting all the folks from out of town. And I look forward to seeing the same faces of the town's sixty residents daily as we pick up our mail in the post office. Though, I fear a day is rapidly approaching when even that community icon may fall.
I love every moment, every splinter, every cold night, every morsel of gossip, every pounded nail. This old home was worth it all. And, with any luck, no one will ever think of me as normal again.
