Raise a Toast to Poplar Street

The place needed some work, so I took Dad for a tour. As a carpenter and a lifelong homebuilder he’d know exactly what to do with the house I just bought.

“So what d’you think it’ll take, Dad?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully and said, “About 20 pounds.”

I didn’t know what he meant.

“About 20 pounds of dynamite.”

That was in 1980, and had I taken his advice, I would have spared myself 29 years of buyer’s remorse. I’ve had 29 years of clogged sewers, reluctant windows, sticky doors and termites. For 29 years I took my money, mixed it in a bucket of roof tar and spread it around up there, and the roof still leaked.

And that’s exactly how it felt.

To be entirely honest, though, my relationship with the house on Poplar Street wasn’t a complete bust. It was my first house, and it was an effective teacher. I learned, for instance, that a roof over your head can be overrated; that drywall is exactly what it’s cracked up to be; and it’s always prudent to have a backup plan when it comes to toilets. 

Despite all the problems, I managed to have some good times, weave a few dreams, and create a moving van full of memories. One of those memories was created, ironically enough, by a tornado.

In 1982 that storm ripped off the roofing and soaked everything inside with several inches of rain.  Carpet, walls, ceilings, everything ruined. But quite literally, this was a windfall because I took the insurance settlement and, with the help of friends and family, remodeled the interior and built an addition that almost doubled the size of the house.  

My brother, an architect, drew up the plans, and all summer long Dad made weekend trips from central Illinois to help. Sometimes he’d spend a week. And while he was there, we framed walls, wired and plumbed the place, threw up Sheetrock, trimmed it and painted.

And after each work day, we’d stow our tools and I’d pour a couple of shots of Early Times — a working man’s whiskey, blue-collar bourbon, Dad’s drink of choice. We’d toast each other, shoot it down, and then we’d talk about that dynamite again.

Having the opportunity to work side by side with my father was one of the greatest gifts that house ever gave me.

About 10 years ago, Mom and Dad had invited me up to their place for Easter, but that house had a job for me, and I couldn’t put it off. I took the weekend and reroofed the entire addition that we had built.  Dad suffered a stroke a week later. I visited him in the hospital for several days, came back to the house on Poplar Street and was in the kitchen when my brother called to tell me he’d died. 

I cried, and when I finished I poured myself a shot of Early Times. Then I raised a toast to my father.

Over the years I did other work on the place. I refinished the hardwood floors, installed a wood-burning stove, did extensive landscaping, replaced storm windows and fixed the basement so it’ll stay dry until it’s time for Noah again.

When I moved out of the house the last time, about eight years ago, the roof was sound, and the building was solid. I rented it to a relative, who saw plenty of dreams of his own in it. He wanted to buy. So if he maintained the property, I’d keep the rent low. My asking price was the payoff on the mortgage, and there was no hurry. This was a family deal, you see.

 

But things happen.  His dreams, much like mine, had floated off to other places. He wanted out.

Meanwhile, I had blissfully become an absentee landlord, and although my relative was still paying the mortgage, the house had fallen into disrepair. It had become an eyesore, a pox, an abandoned building.  My heart sank when I saw the condition that house was in. And as the floodwaters of the economy were rising all around me, the place felt like a weight tied around my neck. It threatened to pull me under.

So I put it on the market, priced it to sell and crossed my fingers. Believe me, this was going to be a hard sell, and I started to project how long my money would last.    

But then I got a call. It was the real estate agent. She had a buyer, a guy who wanted to take it off my hands and flip it. 

My initial reaction was to pump my fist and celebrate. That disaster of a house had been on the market for about a week, and it was sold. Lucky? That doesn’t begin to explain it. I felt like I’d crashed my car and walked away without a scratch.

So I floated around on Cloud 9 for a couple of days, telling everyone I knew about the deal. But about three days later, a wave of melancholia slipped quietly into my mood. I got a little wistful. Memories bubbled up.

This was starting to feel like a wake. 

I don’t drink Early Times any more. These days, when my tongue tells me it’s thirsty, it speaks in Gaelic. I poured a shot of Bushmills.

And then I raised a toast toward Poplar Street.

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