Reflections of the Future

Undisturbed snow covering the other cars confirmed that most of the neighbors were sleeping-in this morning. Robert shut off the engine and sat for a moment enjoying the warmth of the car, knowing that it would be a cold thirty yards to the front door of the house. He was glad he had left the heat turned up when starting for home last night.

With snow drifting against the sides and corners of the house, it seemed old and tired. A house really is old at eighty-eight, he thought. Grandma’s house had always been a favorite place for him - especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas. The family had never been large but they had always gathered at Grandma’s for special holidays. Her death, four years ago, had changed this along with many other things.

A heavy sense of loss washed over him as he remembered why he was here this morning. Dad was dead, too. Robert’s family consisted of a brother in Chicago, their alcoholic, senile uncle somewhere on the West Coast and himself ...the end of the line. Unless his brother paid more attention to his wife and less to making money, the Frazier family would be history in the next generation. Certainly children were not part of his future.

Wishing Scott had stayed long enough to help with this task, Robert T. Frazier III pushed open the car door and stepped into the four inches of snow that covered the street. Scott had taken time to come to their Dad’s funeral. That in itself was something- Dad and Scott had been estranged for years. Perhaps his appearance should be enough for Robert or any brother - family commitment fulfilled.

He sat immobile and exhaled deeply. After a full minute of silence, he steeled himself. "I’d better get on with this." he said aloud hoping the sound of his words would dispel his fugue.

As he walked toward the big house, he snuggled into his coat and held the fuzzy wool lining of the lapel against his nose and mouth. It was so cold it hurt to breathe deeply.

Dad had often talked about a park across the street from the house. Now, through the falling snow, Robert could see an apartment building there. Already past its prime, the building showed signs of renter neglect. Time passes so fast, he thought, and people show the passage as much or more than these buildings. Gone was the park and soon the structure that replaced it would also be gone. Grandma was gone and now Dad, too.

Even in the cold, the latch on the iron gate worked freely. Dad kept everything in order. Order was a way of life to him - a way of living. Snow added softness to the five stone steps leading to the wide porch. Snow blew around the base of the pillars- white tendrils snaking across the wood flooring.

Robert had painted that porch one summer. He painted himself, Scott and Grandma’s cat in the process. Afterward, Dad always hired a painter to do the job.

Frost etched a new pattern on the large oval glass inset of the front door. Robert reluctantly pulled off his right glove and searched his pocket for the key. The well-oiled tumblers worked smoothly as the deadbolt slid aside. He noted the irony of the strong lock intended to keep out intruders when the large glass could so easily be broken allowing a person to step through. Sometimes security only needs to be a state of mind and not a reality. The physical condition of the neighborhood had deteriorated with age but crime had not yet become a problem.

The warmth of the house hugged him as he closed the door. Clouds were still hiding the sunrise and he wished he had thought to leave on some lights. He stamped the snow from his boots as he switched on the hall light.

The oak of the coat tree had darkened with repeated polishing over the past eighty years but the brass hooks gleamed like they were new. He hung his bulky coat and woolen scarf on the nearest one then sat on the bench in front of the mirror to remove his boots. These he carefully placed on the throw rug as the snow turned to water and ran over the edge of the soles.

The same old parquet flooring repeated its pattern of alternating stripes from wall to wall. Although he had seen the hallway countless times, today he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. Mums and fern fronds on the wallpaper greeted him.

The gleaming wood of the banister disappeared into the darkness that engulfed the second floor landing. The carpet on the stairs showed wear.

He was seeing everything from a different viewpoint now. All the decisions were his to make. He must review the treasures and clutter of two generations and preserve or trash them.

It was useless to wonder why Dad didn’t go through all of his parents’ things before he moved in and added his own personal baggage to the collection. Dad hadn’t been good at facing emotional issues. Except that he was the only one available to do this task, Robert knew that he wouldn’t be here today himself.

The living room took on a soft glow as he flipped another switch beside the double sliding doors. He couldn’t remember a single time when those doors had been pulled shut. The living room or "parlor" as Grandma had called it was always open and inviting.

Yesterday Robert had visited the banks and opened the safety deposit boxes. The paid-up life insurance policy and the letter addressed to him had been the only surprises. Dad had added Robert as a signer on his and Grandma’s boxes soon after her death. Curious, Dad hadn’t consolidated the contents into one. That was probably more emotional pain that he had chosen to avoid. It was less painful to just pay the box rent each year than to sort and transfer the contents.

Flat cardboard packing boxes were stacked next to the fireplace. The things to be kept would be packed and sealed in these and taken to a storage facility. Scott had made it clear - he didn’t want anything. Dad’s will had made it more clear- Robert was the sole heir and beneficiary of everything.

Robert wasn’t sure why he was storing any of this. Storing for whom? Who was he saving it for? Maybe that was the same problem Dad experienced- how could he throw away things that had meant so much to someone who meant so much to him?

The clothes would be sent to Goodwill and the Salvation Army. China, silver, lamps, photos, paintings- decisions that would have to be made as he came to them. All of this didn’t have to be done now. It was enough that he was starting.

Robert’s attention came to the "Johnny" table. The center drawer of this thin legged lamp table had always been the catch all, the junk place, of the room. As he pulled out the drawer, the aroma of cedar reached up to him. Yes, Great Granddad’s hand carved miniature table and chairs were there. Through a miracle of handicraft and carving skill, "Papa Brewer" had created a set of two chairs, an ottoman, a bench and a table that nested together as one block of wood.