Back in Time and Moving Forward

Issue No. 20 of the Knowing Road

“Would you like to go in and see the basement?” John said to me.  I paused for a moment, and gently asked “did you change it?”

“No, it’s exactly the same” he quickly replied.

Exactly the same?  It had been only a few moments ago that I met John and Sarah when I drove past my boyhood home, and finally drummed up enough courage to knock on the front door and introduce myself.  It had been over 30 years since I walked into the house where I experienced by childhood. It had been over 50 years since my parents decided to build a home of their own and their young family.

I found myself back in Pennsylvania to attend my best friend’s son’s wedding. To celebrate the present and toast the future, but also to address the past with a new found sense of gratitude and new beginnings.  As I slowly turned onto Bittersweet Road, I started to point out to DeDe the places that were burned on my brain. “Right there was where I picked up my school bus…” “Right there was the hundred year old oak tree that my neighborhood “Oakhurst” was supposedly named after… (to only discover with a sense of sadness that it no longer majestically stood there) …”And right there is my old house, and my bedroom window…” and so on and so on.

Even though I had driven past the house over the past 3 decades as I did my infrequent out of state visits from Maryland and now Texas, for some reason, I felt it was time to inquire more.  I stopped in front of the white brick one story house, put the car in park and opened the door. Other than the shutters that once were red and now were grayish blue, it looked the same.  DeDe understandably asked, ”where are you going?” I casually said, “I am going to go knock on the door…” and walked my way toward the front porch that I knew so well on the school days that I had inadvertently forgot my house key and waited until my older brothers came back from middle or high school or my Mom came home after another exhausting shift (or even double shift) at the “factory.” 

I walked along the concrete sidewalk with its aged cracks and imperfections, noticing how well kept and manicured the lush green lawn was, and its familiar white brick bordered flower and shrub beds that adjacently ran along the front of the house. I fondly remembered walking and balancing on those white bricks as I often pretended to avoid falling into the imaginary dangerous waters below that were filled with sharks and pirañas.  I stepped up on the porch and pushed the doorbell in until the familiar ring rang within. To not present a soliciting appearance, I immediately stepped down onto the sidewalk hoping that someone would answer the door. I heard the doorknob slowly turn and watched the door open. I was greeted by an older gentlemen who naturally inquired from his cautionary perch for me to declare my identity and purpose.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Stephen Candelmo, and this was my boyhood home. My parents were the original builders of this house.”

Not sure of what reaction I would receive, I saw his eyes ever so slightly twinkle with a welcomed surprise.

“Oh, …yes…you are one of Anthony and Nora’s sons…very nice to meet you. My name is John.”

Quickly, I heard a voice in the background, “John, who is it?”

He quickly turned his head and responded, “Its one of Anthony and Nora Candelmo’s sons”

In a few moments, John’s wife, Sarah, came to door as I saw her through the glass storm door and warmly greeted me.

“Hi, my name is Sarah…it’s nice to meet you.  We always heard about you and your brothers from your Mom, your Mom was so proud of you all.”

We began to catch up as to my parents’ passing, my whereabouts, why I was in the area, and my reasons for stopping by to say hello.

Sarah understandably told me that the house was a mess and felt bad that I couldn’t come in.

I replied that I certainly understood but would love to see the rest of the house on the outside. We quickly reminisced on my parents and when they purchased the house from them 30 years ago. We then began to tour the outside of the house and they shared with me how they kept a lot of the trees, removed some of them due to age and disease, but for the most part, the house looked identical as it once stood.

I stood in awe to gaze upon the pine trees in the backyard that soared in the air now versus when they were originally planted by my Mom and oldest brother. The years of watching them grow in width and maintaining them were now replaced with giants that watched over the house as their original intent to protect and shield the house and its occupants from unwelcomed eyes.  While some had fallen due to age, they continued to stand on guard. I couldn’t help but think of what they saw watching me as I practiced my solo baseball skills catching the final out of the future championship game below their branches as well as witnessing John and Sarah’s own children grow up in their shadows.

But as much as I loved those trees, there was one place in the house that meant the most to me. The place that held the most memories. The place that reflected not only my youth and my older brothers’ youth, but also my parent’s aspiration of connection, culture and a better life for themselves and us. A place that became our teen refuge and our sanctuary. That place was our basement. 

As I stood just steps away from the outside basement door, I couldn’t help but walk toward it and attempt to gaze through the panes of glass.  John asked if I wanted to see it, and with profuse apologies from Sarah as to the condition of the basement, I anxiously watched as he took his keys out from his front pocket and unlocked the door.

When I stepped through that door, it was as if I had entered a time capsule, transported back decades in an instant. Despite the piles of clothes and the “stuff of life” piled everywhere, I barely noticed it. The air felt heavy with close to 50 years of nostalgia, as though the basement had been sealed, preserving the essence of my childhood until this very moment. The matted brown and yellow shag carpet greeted my feet, with its familiar texture underfoot. The dark wood paneling from floor to ceiling enveloped the room with it smooth finish as gleams of light bounced off its shiny surface, unchanged by the passage of time. The drop-down ceiling, with its grid of white panels and lights, that I often tested my jumping ability to touch with the top of my head, illuminated the space just as it always had. The faux wooden beam, stained to mimic aged and distressed wood and crafted to resemble an old farmhouse timber, still adorned the ceiling that ran from the foot of the stairs across the middle of the open and expansive room. Its surface bore the deliberate marks of chisels and chains, a testament to my mother’s insistent attention to detail and effort from all of us as we memorably took swings at the wooden boards for the sake of the desired affect and design. Seeing where my Mom’s indoor built in planters formerly stood and the closed wooden door to my Dad’s former office reminded me of their interests and aspirations.

I couldn't help but be drawn to the large mirror that hung proudly behind the bar in the back. The bar with its Formica countertop appeared to be completely intact along with the shelves that once held liquor bottles, glasses and other memorabilia adorned by my Dad. It reflected the room, capturing the essence of the past. As I stood there scanning the room, memories flooded my mind. The four bar stools, with their wood rodded backs and red vinyl cushions adorned with golden rivets, beckoned me to take a seat, just as they once had. The curtains, lovingly stitched by my mother's hands and her trusty sewing machine, still adorned the small basement windows. Their presence brought a sense of familiarity and warmth to the space. The “storage room” door that seamlessly was built into the wall similar to a secret passage invited me to enter, and right next to it the basement closet underneath the steps to the first floor that served as my secret escape and my own version of C.S Lewis’ magical wardrobe among the whiffs of mothballs welcomed me back.

Before I entered, John cautioned me not to cry, and I scoffed at his warning. But as I stepped further into the basement, overwhelmed by a rush of unexpected emotions, tears began to well up in my eyes. It was an overpowering mix of joy, sadness, and a profound sense of connection to my past. Running my hands over the family famous wooden beam, I felt the love and dedication my family poured into every stroke of the chisel. As I stared into the doubled-sided full-sized mirror by the stairs, I saw fragments of my childhood and adolescence staring back at me. How many times did I catch myself in that mirror unaware of how time was passing by.  Countless moments of laughter with friends, holiday celebrations, and the rhythmic sounds of ping pong matches echoed in my ears. Images of the television with Carol Burnett and her friends of zany characters as my Mom laughed without reservation transported me back to simpler times. My Atari console, with its fantastical sounds and pixelated images, ignited a sense of youthful wonder and a preview of the technological wonders that lay ahead for the future. The built in corner shelves, formerly filled with the volumes of the Britannica Encyclopedia and my Dad’s books and stacks of old issues of National Geographic with its words and pictures of exotic places, people and stories that I could only dream of, greeted me in memory.

But it wasn't just the joyful moments that flooded my senses. The basement also held the memories of my teenage rebellion and strife. It was a space where family bonds were pushed and tested but also forged and strengthened. I could almost hear the slow, methodical and painful footsteps of my father as he traversed up and down the stairs, his aching body beginning to betray him due to an unforgiving disease. I could imagine hearing my Mom’s voice echoing down from top of the stairs telling me and my brothers to stop wrestling as I came away with another rug burn on my elbow. The basement became a sanctuary, a place where I navigated the complexities and changing nature of growing up and sought solace from the world.

The overwhelming rush of memories and emotions washed over me like healing waters. It was a profound and loving reminder that my parents created a space for us to experience life.  It wasn’t luxurious, fancy or expensive, but it was ours to call our own.  Standing there, in the embrace of my past, I couldn't help but be filled with gratitude for the experiences that had shaped me and the unwavering sense of belonging that this basement represented. It was a moment of reflection but more importantly a moment for closure.

The past can be a tricky place to visit and walk back from. It can easily hold us hostage as its memories convince us of its sway.  It can be a place where we can easily rely on excuses that we never can let go of. It is also a reminder of our own eventual mortality and those who came before but who are no longer with us. The past can be cluttered with a debris field of “shoulds” and “what if’s.” But perhaps this moment, this trip posed something different for me. Acknowledging and honoring my past and finding gratitude so I could let go of certain stories that were no longer serving me.  In that moment, my thoughts and heart were filled with love.  As I stood there in silence, Sarah brought me back to the present.

“You know, your Mom said something to me that I’ll never forget, ‘Take care of your home, and your home will end up taking care of you.’”

I couldn’t help but smile realizing that in some ways my Mom was there with me again at that moment. 

I replied by saying with a smile mixed with emotion, “Very true…” recalling that my Mom never shared those words with me before.  I quietly thanked my Mom and my Dad, realizing how this place, this home did end up taking care of me.  How it ended up taking care of my family.  I have my parents to thank for that.

Taking that step back in time filled me with heartfelt nostalgia but in the end, I realized that it turned the page on a chapter that was needing to be closed with a new perspective and story of love and appreciation. All of those memories were with me always but finally placed on a shelf just like the bottles placed on the shelves behind the bar. It was a simply a part of the scenery now that served as the backdrop on the story of my life rather than it being such a central and unwavering character. I guess what they say is true, in the end, love wins.

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