For my father...
At 975 square feet, the simple beige beauty at 17 Oak Hill Road is the antithesis of modernity. While most have hardwood floors installed by home improvement chains or an underpaid immigrant, this one can claim its original oak boards; when most have a sliver of grass regulated by neighborhood inspections, this one wears a well-tilled vegetable garden; and when most have garages with faulty mechanized doors, this has a freestanding double carport made off the American Dream. Indeed, little has changed since its construction 53 years ago, and in an age where millionaire retirement homes serve as the tasty, rewarding marshmallows of the real estate cereal box, the house at Oak Hill is the simple, untouched piece of oat at the bottom of the bowl molded by the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains.
Yet for some, the nostalgic charm at 17 Oak Hill makes it synonymous with a time of innocence when sit-ins and protests seemed to provide no room for it. Here marks the conquests of G.I. Joe and Johnny West, the collisions of Hot Wheels and the corrals of “Bonanza.” Here also holds the bright images of man conquesting moon, of JFK waving for the last time and of The Beatles crossing the Atlantic, some even broadcast on a talk-of-the-town color television. “That’s where I watched the Mets win the 1969 World Series,” my father said, with a scoff.
“And everyone thought they were so bad.”
My father and his parents moved there in October 1960, and they left for a parallel road, Monte Vista Circle, in 1972. He wished they’d never left. In later years, trips to see his parents would serve as opportunities to appraise his childhood home, and occasionally his looks to the side for a realtor sign would escalate into full-blown safaris with the arresting turn of a steering wheel.
It wasn’t until June 2007 that one of Dad’s expeditions ended victoriously with a wild beast pierced on the end of his spear. When he first saw the words “For Sale,” he asked himself how he would react, afraid that he might cry in a dramatic Hollywood entrance, his rigid posture reduced to a timid hunch. Instead, he could only laugh, remembering the disproportions of childhood memories. Looking at his bedroom and clearly in denial, he chuckled at their tiny dimensions, “Did I actually live here?”
When Lana Elingburd first met my father, their connection was immediate. She was an Indian swami and he her reincarnated soul, the presence of energy not entirely explained by five senses. Multiple sclerosis blackmailed the woman into finding a new owner, and his interest was nothing short of divine intervention. “I want you to have this house,” she said. “There are houses, and there are homes. And this is a home.” Dad wore a hole through his cell phone and had the deal finalized by the end of the week.
The 46-year-old’s year has been riddled with divorce and the loss of his mother, and his hair is longer than it was since the funeral. He talks suddenly of getting a dog, and maybe even a tattoo of something Irish, but instead the materialization of this hidden realty drema seemed to give the OK to move ahead without collars or needles.
Now, like an eager boy showing off his newest toy, Dad points to an old path where he often walked Mr. Blue – a mutt by most standards, but to the family half Old English Sheepdog based on the feel of his shaggy hair. There’s a nod to his place of conception, a deteriorating garage apartment not fit by today’s standards. A point for the house that never gave Halloween candy. And one last acknowledgment for the field that provided the learning curve of baseball, the thrill of sleigh rides, the gift of a first bike ride. Next month it will be the place of romps with his newest bike, a Harley Davidson Road King. He plans to cover the halls in old photos of his childhood, such as the 1965 classic with the cowboy costume, and gathering from antiques stores is an invigorating new hobby. A sea trunk is his latest and greatest find.
Dad’s smile has grown from a forced acknowledgment into a beaming piece of watermelon with teeth for seeds. Some would say he has fallen prey to the middle-aged man’s Achilles’ heel – the midlife crisis. Others say he is evolving, making strides to a new and improved Mr. Wright. But perhaps the man is just trying to win something back, a retired sportsman out to prove he can reclaim his glory days against all odds. Perhaps he is regressing, back to a time of innocence. Back to a time when there were no obligations, no failed marriages, no deceased parents, simply a boy, his dog and his bike.
tər, 
