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Monday, 01 December 2014

The Julian House

By Marcy Belson

I wanted to see it one more time, one last time. I knew it was now or never; there would be no more road trips for us after this one.

We left El Centro right after lunch, the reunion lunch with my co workers from the Department of Employment. Forty retirees were invited. I knew three people who attended.

It wasn't hard to leave, although I was truly glad to see those three again. It's like the house, I probably won't see them again.

We drove through the hot desert, close to 100 degrees that day, but with air conditioning in the car, it was of little concern to us. After a lifetime of living in the desert, we knew to never start a trip without water and now, a working cell phone.

In the "old" days, you relied on the kindness of other travelers if you broke down. Now, no one stops to help. Who would? Times are different.

Up the mountain grade to the high desert, then the winding road to Julian. It is about an hour and a half from the valley city to the mountain town of Julian. The lake, Cuyamaca Lake, is just a pond now. As a child, I fished there in a boat with my parents. Blue gill were plentiful and it was a peaceful place to spend a day.

Finally, we rounded a corner and there it was. The house that my father built, the Clark house. He had torn down the gold rush cabin that we spent summers in during the 1940s and '50s. Then, with the help of a few contractors doing the plumbing and electrical work, he built a two story house that jutted out from the hillside behind it.

It had a long porch, overlooking Main Street. That porch had a homemade swing for two people with pillows. The perfect place to spend an afternoon with a book and a lemonade.

My father told my husband that he had put the very best roof possible on the house and that we would not have to replace it for many years. The implied message was that as the only child, I would be inheriting the house in the far distance future.

Fast forward 30 years. My dad, with a undiagnosed brain tumor, sold the house for $10,000. My mother let him. He died in six months. The house was gone. The next time I saw one of the cousins, I was told the house had been converted to a HeadStart children's center.

I said I never wanted to see it again. But now, in my old age, I did want to see it one more time. I have no idea who owns it now. It had been painted a dark color, and a large fence enclosed the property. There were half a dozen cars parked in the rear.

I drove down the alley looking for the black walnut tree my father had carried home from Arkansas one year. I don't think it was there. They are messy trees, someone probably cut it down.

And so I have seen the house one more time. There were no tears, no thought of going to the door and asking to go inside. It was part of another time.

My mother had cancer, living in that house. I used to drive up and spend the weekends, cleaning and cooking. My father was not happy there. He came and went, in retirement, looking for family and friends that were no more.

I'm not sad that I don't own the house. I hope there is happiness there now.

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