When I came home from my first year away at school in southern Illinois, there was a FOR SALE sign on the front lawn of the pink-brick house in which I grew up. My younger sister had taken up residence in the basement. My older siblings and our parents were long gone. 9037 Bartlett stood empty of just about everything except my memories.
I spent ten weeks sleeping there during the summer of 1979, long enough to take an evening language class at the junior college. I also worked two jobs in order to earn tuition for my sophomore year. By day I did administrative work downtown (Chicago) as a Kelly Girl, and by night I cashiered at the local Convenient Food Mart.
What I remember most about 9037 that summer was the emptiness. There was no furniture, and there was no love. My sister clearly did not want me around. Worse, rude real estate agents consistently dropped by unannounced to show our pretty pink house to prospective buyers.
When I think back, I realize the summer of 1979 taught me that 9037 Bartlett never belonged to me. My last days there were like living in an abandoned nest. And once I had flown away, I was no longer welcome. At the tender age of 18, I wasn’t emotionally prepared for such a sharp edge to my reality. It pierced my soul.
I have visited Bartlett Avenue and 9037 a few times since leaving Brookfield. Each time the pink bricks of my youth still sparkled in the sunshine. She looked as she did in my dreams. I marveled at the growth of the maple trees I helped my father plant and wished the young family occupying her my silent best wishes from the curb.
We stopped by 9037 the other day on our way out of town after a family wedding in Oak Park. The first thing I saw when we pulled up was a yard sign, and a brief pang of PTSD triggered my emotions. I put on my glasses and saw with relief that it was not for sale. Instead, the sign announced 9037 as a proud home of an RBHS Bulldog.
What I should have noticed first, however, is that the old gal, like me, has gone gray. And she never looked more beautiful.