by Eric Schenck
Now
It’s a strange thing when your parents get ready to sell your childhood home.
There’s a feeling of excitement at what’s to come. Something good and normal is happening, and after all, home is where you make it. There’s also a feeling of detachment. It doesn’t feel real, in a way, and you know life is about to be “before and after.”
But that’s what’s happening now. We are all going to the house, one final time, for “The Schenck Long Goodbye.”
It starts with a road trip. Noah picks me up at the Boise airport, and the next morning we drive all the way home. When we finally pull into the driveway, I expect the flashbacks, am ready for them.
And now that we’re here for one last hurrah, that’s exactly what starts to happen.
1996
Perhaps my earliest memory is one with my father.
I’m sitting in the backyard and there are leaves all around me. It feels cold. I can see my dad’s big glasses. He’s laughing.
Everything is comfort and security.
Like so much of my childhood viewed as an adult, the memory is more a feeling than a thing. I don’t know exactly what we’re doing, but I know I’m safe. That’s enough.
The house sees this, just as it will see many things.
Now
We have our own “Amazing Race” getting here. Out of three groups coming to Mom and Dad’s, Noah and I finish second. Not bad, considering we just knocked out a 9-hour drive.
We walk in the door and there are hugs all around. This is a homecoming for all of us, in a way. It’s the first time we’ve all been here at the same time since Noah’s high school graduation.
That was eight years ago. The house looks different. Dad has been fixing it up, and they’re looking to sell it ASAP. New doors, new windows, a brand new kitchen.
We’ve all changed over the years. So has the house.
Morgan and Bobbi arrive an hour later. They walk through the door and officially, for the last time, we are all home.
1998
I learn to tie my shoes on the same day that my little brother Noah is brought home. Nobody seems to care about this milestone of mine. There are more important things.
He’s a ball of wrinkles and I’m unimpressed. This is a momentous day for me, and Noah’s arrival has stolen it away. I go outside and sit on the steps to practice.
The house congratulates me. In the privacy of solitude, as I hear sounds coming from inside, it wraps its big arms around me. And then, once I’ve tied my shoes for the 100th time that day, it ushers me back in.
It’s time to be an older brother.
Now
The air feels different.
That’s always the first thing I notice. Not that it’s weird to be here. I’ve spent quite a lot of time home recently.
But that right there is the thing: this place is still home for me. I’ve come back several times in the last two years. With all the moving around and different countries, this house has been the one constant. I’m floating around these days, and this house is the closest thing I have to roots.
Eight years later and there are five new children. Our family is expanding. Getting bigger and, somehow, even louder.
It’s different being here now.
But goddamn this feels good.
1999
The first time I swim by myself starts with a leap of faith. Floaties have been essential for the last year. Now, I’m not so sure.
I jump into the pool as my dad watches, confident I can finally do it. And I do. I bob up and down, gasping for air and flailing my arms.
It’s happening.
The house is watching me grow up. It’s smiling.
My joy can’t be contained. Swimming has expanded what’s possible, and as a 6-year-old I’ve never felt more grown up. I scream at my newfound skill. My voice echoes, but maybe it’s the house screaming back at me.
It’s just as excited as I am.
Now
The pool quickly becomes a gathering place. I jump in and my nieces and nephews gravitate to me.
I throw them in the air. We have fights with foam noodles. We make whirlpools. Around and around we go, and it’s laughs all the way.
I remember being younger. Whirlpools felt like a pleasant end of the world. The faster you went, the more you convinced yourself that it was never going to stop. That you were never going to make it out.
But you knew you would, eventually. That’s what made it so delightful.
There is something special about being in the water. When I learned to swim the doors of the world opened up. Right now, they’re opening up for my nieces and nephews, too.
Nothing can touch them.
2001
I watch the Twin Towers fall on T.V.
We are two weeks into school and my mom keeps us home. This is amazing news, and I’ve never been happier. I’m 8 years old and my world is still mostly myself.
I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t comprehend what this means for Morgan. My oldest brother is in the Marines, and the United States was just attacked.
As mom watches the news with Mark and Hannah, I play outside with Noah. It’s cloudy and a day of no homework brings possibility. The backyard shields me from the carnage on the other side of the country.
Inside, my family falls apart.
The house cries at my innocence, and at everything that’s about to happen.
Now
Bacon is floating in the air.
With all the open space in this house, breakfast smells travel fast. Maybe that was Dad’s intention when he built it. He is Mr. Breakfast, after all.
I sit and talk with him and Hannah. It’s the first morning of a week together, and all the happiness of the coming days is right around the corner. The others are coming over in an hour. But right now, it’s just us.
These are some of my favorite moments. When you have something to look forward to, and it’s almost there. The week before a trip together. When you wake up on Christmas morning, those last moments before you get out of bed. That first summer Monday you don’t have to go to school.
Anticipation is the closest thing to magic.
That evening, I realize once again how lucky I am. I’m upstairs and look over the banister. My entire family is down there. Talking, laughing, pointing at each other.
Life could be a whole lot worse. And at this moment, it couldn’t be much better.
2003
My oldest brother is going to Iraq.
I’m convinced he’s going to die. Just two years later and my world has become so much bigger. So much colder.
We drop Morgan off at the airport and I hug him. This might be our final goodbye, and at 10 years old I’m fully aware of it. I cry all the way home.
I sit on my bed and loneliness crushes me. This house has never felt so empty. It sees everything, it feels everything, but right now, at the thought of losing my brother, it’s just a stupid set of walls.
I want to punch it as hard as I can.
Now
Hidden Valley has a lake right in the middle. We all drive there one day, cars full of snacks and drinks and even two blow up kayaks.
I spent a lot of time here in high school. The lake always felt like we owned it. Me, Luis, Daniel and Mario. There were people before me. There were people after me. But in my mind, the lake was always ours.
How many summer afternoons did we spend swimming in the algae? How many last days of school did we bring coolers full of soda to Big Beach?
It makes me think of places and time. Everybody’s gone now, but the lake remains.
So we pass it on to somebody else to enjoy.
2004
Mark is off to college.
My parents and I are driving him all the way to Arizona. Morgan and Hannah stand at the bottom of the driveway and wave goodbye.
So does the house. Not to me, but to my older brother. It’s a realization that will stick with me. This house is just as much his as it is mine.
I’m 11. Mark is 18. Somehow, though, we are going through the exact same thing.
The house laughs at all the things I have yet to learn.
Now
It’s time for beer pong.
It’s a cliche you never think you’re going to fall into, but none of us really drink anymore. Eight years ago we also played, but we played it the right way. Now the cups are full of water and we just take sips from our bottles.
Our hangovers haven’t gotten any better.
Mark and I are losing until I make a shot behind my back. Two rounds later, we win. It’s another moment, taken from time that just keeps going.
Will we remember this ten, twenty years from now? I doubt it. But I think that’s ok. Time can be a bitch, but the good stuff sticks around.
That’s what matters.
2006
I move into the attic.
It’s comfortable and feels like an adventure. As a 13-year-old, it’s also the perfect amount of privacy. Once again, I feel older than I am.
Morgan lived up here for months. Dad and Mark fixed it up for him, made it livable. After three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, all he wanted to do was sleep.
I have no idea what he’s been through – but the house does. It knows things about me that the rest of the family doesn’t. It’s only now I understand that’s also true of my siblings.
What happened over there? How did it change my oldest brother? These are questions the house could answer, but I’ve never dared to ask.
The house feels different up here. I’m higher up and separated from the rest. Hannah is gone now, too. It’s just me and Noah left. The house is gradually emptying over time.
I sit on my bed again and listen. It’s quiet, but very much alive.
Now
At this moment, though, the house is maybe the loudest it’s ever been.
It’s the first time my nieces and nephews have been here together. The house is a castle. All the nooks and crannies are just waiting to be discovered.
As they run around, I laugh at how similar we all are. Myla wants an ice cream. Charlie wants to show me an experiment. Henry is ready for batting practice.
Siblings having fun together.
I guess nothing really changes.
2008
Her sister, her brother, her mother. These are the people taken away from my own mom in 2008.
Three deaths in a row. What do you do when it happens? What can you possibly say?
One day, it’s just me and my mom in the living room. I ask her if she’s ok.
She sits for a moment. She’s supposed to look at me, smile, tell me that everything is fine. But she doesn’t.
“I’m very sad right now, Eric. I need you to understand that.”
I nod my head and hug her. Surely that’s made it better. But I’m a freshman in high school and self-absorbed, and for the millionth time, I don’t really get it.
Right now, tragedy and sorrow fill this place. Some things are just terrible. Sometimes nothing can help.
The house understands that better than I ever could.
Now
Right now, the only tragic thing is how bad I suck at Monopoly.
Hannah helps Henry collect cards, and I can’t seem to get my 200 dollars. I think about the difference between adults and kids. We played this for days when I was younger. Now, I hardly have the patience to make it through a couple rounds.
What changes about us to make that happen? Why isn’t Monopoly as fun as it used to be? What suddenly became more interesting?
We get older, and we need more and more to be enthralled. It makes me a bit sad.
But maybe that’s just today’s failure talking. After an hour of playing, I have a total of four properties, and Mark laughs at me anytime I try to make a deal.
Where’s Scrabble when you need it?
2010
I learn about Alli the day that she’s born.
My parents sit me down and break the news. Mark had a kid with a woman I’ve never heard of, and I’m just now hearing about it.
I don’t remember what I say, but somehow I end up in my room. I’m on my bed and the tears won’t stop. A couple hours later I take a walk outside. I sit on the driveway and look at the sky.
The house doesn’t have anything to say. It’s just as confused as I am.
That entire year feels weird. There’s something we should be talking about, but we’re not.
Later that winter I smoke weed for the first time.
I’m on Luis’s deck, puffing and puffing away. I don’t feel anything…until I do. The next two hours are filled with delicious food and shitty shows. I smile with my best friend. It’s the hardest I’ve laughed in awhile.
I get home that evening. A stomach full of tacos and a bit cloudy-headed. My mom asks me how Luis’s place was. I give her an awkward thumbs up. She frowns.
“Well are you at least hungry? Dinner’s ready.”
“Um…not exactly.”
I swear I can hear the house laugh.
That evening I sit on the driveway again. Some kind of trust with my parents has been broken, and I’m looking for validation that I’m not a terrible person.
I look at the house, and the house looks right back. It knows exactly what I did, but it’s not going to say a word. It’s now my accomplice. I love it all the more.
Things are no longer weird. I might still be a bit high, but I start thinking differently. My older brother has given me advice on how to get beer in high school, how to make out with my first girlfriend, how to throw a baseball faster.
People fuck up. Mark is still Mark.
Things have changed, but that certainly hasn’t.
Now
We go golfing. Me, my brothers, and Dad.
It’s quickly becoming our thing. Time spent insulting each others’ shots, sharing a beer at 2 PM, walking around trees and greens. An alright day in my book.
I end up winning. I pass the scorecard around for proof. Morgan flips me off, and Noah laughs.
On the way back we drive past Cobb elementary school. That field is where we had minors baseball practice. Dad helped out the entire season. The best day of my life was when we finally got our Rockies jerseys.
25 years later, and these are the things I remember.
2011
My house is congratulating me.
High school is over and it’s time for bigger and better things. No more lake after school. No more sitting on Luis’s deck. No more baseball games.
Gonzaga here I come.
We drive down the court on the way to Washington. The house watches, and as I take my next step, it wishes me well.
The house is sad, and so am I, but I know it will be here when I come back.
It will always be here.
Now
We head to the ocean. On the way there, like we always did, we stop at the schoolhouse. The air this close to the ocean is 20 years older, but it still feels brand new.
How many trips have we taken? How many times have we laughed? Most importantly, how many sandwiches have we eaten?
These are questions that have no answers.
Me, Morgan and Noah take a swim. The freezing water cuts into us. Maybe this is it’s way of saying goodbye. It doesn’t matter how old and big we get – the ocean is still bigger.
It’s Mom’s birthday. We bring out champagne and cupcakes. We talk. We laugh. We drink.
This is the last time most of us will ever sit on this beach.
Time just keeps on ticking.
2013
The summer before my junior year of college, I work as a landscaper.
Every day at 3:30 PM, my dad picks me up on the way home. These are good times. It’s wonderful, this feeling that I’m earning something. A bit of hard-won respect. Moments with my dad, just me and him. That satisfying exhaustion that only manual labor can give you.
Whatever it is, it’s not just the crappy paycheck.
I sit on Mom’s floor and drink a beer after work. We talk about our day together. I’m back on the lawn as a three-year-old. Everything is comfort and security.
The house greets me each one of these summer days. Our time together is drawing to a close.
The house knows it and so do I.
Now
It’s now just one day left.
I get stoned with my sisters-in-law. Just as the weed gummy sets in, they hide the snacks from me. I can’t think of a more wicked thing to do.
We play Phase 10. Somehow, we convince Marleigh that there is a conspiracy against her, and spend five rounds laughing until our sides hurt. Bobbi just shakes her head.
I want to freeze time and stay in this moment a little longer, but I can’t. So I lay on the deck and look at the stars instead.
I’m still a bit giggly. But somehow, for some reason, all those shitty greeting cards pop into my head.
I’m thinking of you.
Wish you were here.
The world needs more people like you.
I think of my family, what they mean to me, and can only come up with cliches. We’re all connected, no matter what we’re going through. And as much as you annoy me, I’ll still bail you out of jail.
I guess Hallmark had it right.
2015
A few weeks after I move to Cairo, it happens.
The Valley Fire rages and eats up a town. I remember getting the news. Mark messages me, and with the time difference I don’t see it until the morning.
Mom, Dad and Noah are safe, but they’ve been evacuated. The fire has already burned down half of Cobb and Middletown. Hidden Valley is next.
I check in with my family multiple times a day. Rarely have I felt so helpless. I’m 8,000 miles away, and as I explore a new culture, my parents and little brother shuttle between motels.
The fire continues. Several friends lose everything. My hometown is going up in smoke, and every minute the fire lives my house is that much closer to dying.
I make a promise to God that if the house makes it through, I will give it a hug next time I see it.
Nine months later, that’s exactly what I do. I’m home for the first time since leaving for Egypt. With a head full of new experiences, everything looks different.
Even the house. It’s alive, untouched. The end of summer threw balls of flame at it, and the house just shrugged them off. Against the backdrop of a hill full of burnt stumps, my childhood home is triumphant. I look at it for the first time in nine months, and wonder which one of us has changed more.
My house towers over me, and I hug it.
Now
The first of us start to go.
Mark, Marleigh, and their kids take Hannah along. The house is emptying out again. Give it another day and we’ll all be gone.
This feeling never goes away. No matter how many days we spend together, the ending always sneaks up on me.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
As they drive away, I think about how things repeat. How many times has this driveway seen a departure? How many times was I the one in the car, and how many times was I standing and waving?
We walk back inside and notice it instantly. It’s always this way. No matter who you take away, it doesn’t quite feel the same.
We’re all parts of a whole.
It’s a nice thought as I jump back into the pool.
2019
I bring Janina home. She’s from Germany, and after living there for a year, I’m excited to show her where I’m from.
It’s a disaster almost from the start. We were fighting before the flight, and all this time together has only made it worse. We aren’t smiling, we aren’t having sex, we are barely even talking.
It’s sad and embarrassing.
Janina leaves a week early to Mexico. My parents take off a few days later to Texas, and I’m left alone.
My childhood home feels suffocating. I can’t leave soon enough. It’s not the house’s fault, but I feel my connection to it slipping away. Maybe this is part of growing up. I love this house, but I no longer belong here.
The last night I’m there I sit on the back deck and look out. At the pool I learned to swim in. At the grass we’ve played countless games of wiffleball on. At this yard that holds countless memories and celebrations and milestones.
So many times, I’ve felt older than I was. The opposite is starting to happen. I’m no longer a kid, but somehow it feels like I am. I’m 26, and time is speeding up. Who do I have to ask to slow it down?
It’s ok, the house whispers to me.
Everything is ok.
Now
My last night at home.
Everybody is asleep, and it’s just me and Noah on the couch. He’s 26 now, I’m 31. This little ball of wrinkles is now my favorite person in the world.
He always was – even if his arrival stole the show.
I watch Olympic highlights on my phone. Everything they do is amazing. This is what they’ve spent their entire life training for. The end result is as close to perfect as you can get.
But you don’t see most of it. The heartbreak. The tough conversations. Everything they’ve given up, all the things that break them.
Nothing that looks perfect on the surface actually is.
I look at Noah, and we both giggle. It’s better than any medal.
I’ll take the life I have.
2023
My dad begins the remodeling process.
It’s 40 years in the making, but we all get it. Five kids and no money isn’t easy.
He’s making it new again. Making it beautiful. They hope to sell in the next couple of months.
This house is changing, and it is beautiful, but in the ways that count, to me, it’s still the same. No matter what my parents do. No matter how pretty they make it. No matter how much they sell it for.
This place has seen too much. It will always be the same house for me.
And I prefer it that way.
Now
My last morning home, I’m sitting on the deck with Charlotte.
It’s that crummy feeling once again. Something good is over. Except this time, it’s over for good. It’s a great day. The sun is shining, it’s not too warm, and there’s just one single cloud in the sky.
I ask her if she’s excited to go back home.
Charlotte thinks for a minute, then shakes her head.
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because Smokey isn’t there anymore. It’s so quiet.”
Their dog died two weeks ago, and silence can be crushing for all of us. The perceptiveness of children haunts me.
I give Charlotte a hug and catch a glimpse of the house behind us. That single cloud is reflected in the windows, and with a new paint job, it’s never looked fresher.
This time the house just stands, doesn’t do anything. There’s nothing to say in moments like these.
The house knows what I’m thinking.
It probably always has.
…
After
A house is just a house.
It doesn’t breathe. It doesn’t feel. It doesn’t talk to you, and it certainly doesn’t listen to what you have to say.
But really, who actually believes that?
Objects are alive. Life marches on, and we’ve all gotten older, and this house has seen it all.
All the basketball games. All the homework. All the teeth we lost. All the fights we had. All the Christmases we woke up early for, and every single time we walked into the house after school, just happy to be home again.
Remembering a house, this house, is really about remembering a family. Who we were. Where we came from. What we have seen, been through, endured, and what it can tell us about where we are going.
It’s the one thing we have in common. Different ages, different interests, different stages in life, connected by one thing: the house we spent all this time in.
Someday in the not so distant future, there will be a switch.
Somebody will buy it, and new people will walk its halls. There will be a new family. They will build their own memories. They will hang their own pictures in the living room. They will have their own parties in the yard.
It will no longer be our house, but theirs.
It’s so easy to be sad about these things, but I think this forgets the whole point: how lucky we are.
If you look at it through time alone, maybe the house wasn’t so important after all. Mom and Dad are moving away. We already have. Assuming we all live longish lives, most of it will be spent in different places.
But those years that we gave it, and what we got in return? Those 18 years are probably as important as any other. All those moments, spread out across our lives, to be repeated again.
And so much of it started here. In this house. In this home.
Goodbyes are always hard, so instead, I’ll say thank you.
For that feeling of comfort and security. For not telling my secrets. For watching me grow up and leave, and for welcoming me whenever I came back.
In your own way, you’ve built all of us.
And for that, we remember you forever.
Enjoying the content on 3QD? Help keep us going by donating now.