MY HOUSE

The waterfall sang a crisp song tonight. I lay in bed unable to sleep, concentrating on the cool breeze and the soothing rhythm of the water. It was the same song that had hummed softly--always soothing me with its voice. I wondered what life might be like without it and I couldn't. It was part of me, as much a part as my old brick house.


My mind wandered in my sleeplessness, and I wondered if the beautiful Lydia had lain in the corner bedroom on that hot August evening listening to that very same song. I envisioned the first time she had seen the house and imagined her traveling from the Boulder on Main Street along River Street, bearing right at the fork and proceeding to the west end of the city. She would have followed the highway to Sanborn Street in an old-fashioned buggy and gazed at the house in delight.

In 1849, the city had appropriated $400 to erect a school house on that spot (297 Ashburnham Street, West Fitchburg, MA), and that is how the old brick house came to be.  A young boy passed that place every day from his farm on Stickney Road.  His name was Albert Desgroseilliers.  He would brag to all of his friends, "When I grow up, I want to buy that place."  It was no wonder, because the view overlooking the pond was great.  It wasn't the same as the view from his house way up on the hill.  He could see Mt. Wachusett and Boston from there.  The scene from the brick house was more musical.

The young Albert was my grandfather, and the beautiful Lydia was my grandmother.  On that hot August night, she lay in labor waiting for her sixth child.  She was mistress now of the old school house, because guess what?  My grandfather did fulfill his childhood dream and purchased the old building for his young bride.  Already they had five robust boys and I'll bet that Lydia wanted a little girl almost as much as my grandfather.  I can imagine their pleasure on that night when my mother was born.  The singing waters below must have been subdued compared to the great joy in the brick house.  I remember my gramp telling me the story over and over.  And, how I loved to hear it.  He had taken the horse and buggy out and driven up and down Ashburnham Street for hours exclaiming to everyone who would listen, "I have a beautiful daughter!"

The child grew inquisitve and spoiled by her father and five older brothers.  She had raven hair and eyes darker than the coal in the bin in the corner of the cellar.  By the time my mother was five, she had to share the attention with two younger sisters.  Oh to see them in my mind exploring the wonders there and singing a happy tune in their heads.  And, my mother humming a geat tune, just like the one she heard in her head on the night she was born.

It must have been such a happy family.  It was around this time that my grandmother lay in the little corner room again.  There she had lain day after day, night after night, waiting (not for another child), but for the pain from the cancer to subside.  Did she hear the happy song again then too?  And when her body finally could take no more pain, did her spirit reluctantly leave the happy song?  Did she hesitate a moment to listen one more time?

Some twenty years later, my mom and dad moved back to the brick house.  I was six months old and from that time on, that was the only home I would remember.  My little sister and I grew and we were the trailblazers now, exploring all wonders around us.  One spot we named our little corner of the world. It was our secret spot under Sanborn Street.  We would splash from rock to rock in the water, enjoyng the sight of the the sun reflecting and the music from the waterfall above.  But as time will do, it moved too quickly and we left our special corner for grown up concerns.  When I got married, we moved next door, building a lovely dream house on the land Mom and Dad had given us as a wedding gift.

I remember a story that Mom had told us about when she was a little girl.  It was the year of the terrible hurricane and she could remember the waterfall angrily rushing over the street and washing it away.  I wondered why it wasn't angry the year my mother lay in the corner bedroom dying.  Why didn't it feel any rage?  The last sound that she could remember--was it the water trickling softly in her head--the first sound she had ever heard, and the last one?

And then years later, why didn't the surroundings miss my dad like I did?  He had left one day for major surgery and never returned to his old brick house again.  Why didn't the water below burst like the falls flowing down my cheeks as my sister and I emptied the house of all it's happy memories?

The old brick house became my house.  It was a gift from a city that wanted to educate its children.  It was a young boy's dream for his future.  Now it was a parents' goodby present.  A gift to treasure.  My three children, grown and no longer there, thought they had discovered all the wonders by themselves.  But did they know that I did too, and my mother before me?  No, it was their discovery then.

Now, I have moved away from 297 Ashburnham Street, but the memories are with me always.  As I think about it, I envision a dream for the future.  In one hundred years, and in two hundred years, someone will travel in their shiny new car from the Boulder on Main Street along River Street, bearing right at the fork and proceeding to the west end of the city.  They will follow the highway to Sanborn St and there they will see it--the proud old brick house.  It will be overlooing the pond below, and the waterfall will be singing its happy little tune.