As winter sputtered to a close and our camellias bloomed profusely, I attended the memorial service for a woman I didn’t know well. But, I knew her in a unique way. I live in her house.
In the early 1980’s, Julia built the first house on a small cul-de-sac near the women’s college where she taught chemistry and was dean. She later retired and became a minister.
When she decided it was time for a retirement home, the “For Sale” sign went up. We were looking, and her home checked a lot of our boxes: It was across from that same college where I now worked; had a small, well-established backyard; and featured a library with wall-to-wall bookshelves. Those bookshelves sold us. Twenty years and three moves ago, we had and estimated 5,000 pounds of books. And we rarely discard.
Although Julia and I had met, she had no reason to remember me. Hoping to influence her, I instructed our realtor to write on the offer, “The wife works at the college.” It helped.
Julia’s reputation assured that the house was built beautifully and to precision. Being the first on the street, she also had cultivated a neighborhood of lovely people who became our friends. Even the prolific camellias in our backyard tie us to a mutual friend who gave her the seeds.
I’ve been intrigued for years about how older women chose to live their lives, thinking I might gain insight for my future. Julia was a strong, intelligent, fun-loving woman marked by her stentorian voice. When I asked her reason for selling and moving into retirement home, she proclaimed, “I wanted to make that decision while I could still make it for myself.” Noted.
She corrected me once upon hearing me refer to the house as “Julia’s house.” It was our house now. Maybe. Both my husband and I now have lived in this house longer than any other house. It occurred to me during her memorial service that I had grown up in a minister’s home, and now I will grow old—at least until I make The Decision—in a minister’s home.
I didn’t know her well. But, every day I walk on Julia’s floors, through her rooms and into her garden. The brass doorknocker bearing her initial remains in place.
But, our bookshelves brim with books; our camellias flourish with blossoms.
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