The House Where The Little Boy Lived.

So last night I decided to take a quick drive through the neighborhood where I grew up. Before the shoe store on 9th Street, before Camp Sangamo Road and before 630 East Keys, there was Piper Road. It's about a mile stretch of two lane that runs north of Sangamon Avenue between two cornfields (although less and less these days) and eventually settles into a neighborhood of unique little houses and dead end side streets. Near the end of the run before it terminates at Mayden Road near "Pam's Jailhouse" there sits a little two bedroom house on the corner of Piper Road and what the residents now call "Ida Mae Lane." 3128 to be exact. As I passed by I wanted to stop and take a picture but noticed a woman sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch. Not wanting to creep her out I decided to move along, continuing to take in the scenery offered by a mild summer night. About halfway through Twin Lakes I thought better of it decided to go back. I parked across the street from the house on the shoulder of the road. The moment I stepped into the driveway it occurred to me that I hadn't set foot on that property in well over 30 years. The woman on the porch remained seated as I approached. I offered a smile and half-wave and began to plea my case.

"Good evening. I hope this isn't very strange but I was out for a drive with my wife and we were passing by the house and I was telling her about how I used to live here. I was wondering if you would mind if I took a few pictures of your home."

I paused. If my father taught me anything about sales it was that the first person who talks, loses. I could see she was measuring me, trying to decide where I fit on the serial killer scale. Honestly, I was kind of doing the same thing with her. As I neared the house I noticed she wasn't nearly as up in years as I had first thought from the street. Probably in her 50s she had tied back a handful of naturally blonde hair that was turning over white at the roots. A modest summer dress with dark blue paisley patterns hung loosely from her shoulders. On her feet were a spotless pair of white Keds, one of which landed just beneath a somewhat recent ankle tattoo which hung like a halo above her right foot. I waited until she finally answered.

"Well, you know this house has been a rental for years" she began.

She was right. I thought back to Miss Ida Mae, our landlord who lived in the apartments down the little lane where I first learned to ride a bike. She was good to us as far as I can recall. On more than one occasion I received a Masters Of The Universe action figure from Ida Mae, Roboto and Buzz-Off I believe. The lens of childhood has a way of shaping and over-romanticizing the blurry figures of our past but I'm fairly certain she was one of the good ones.

"But you're welcome to take pictures. Would you like to come inside and look around? It's not very clean but you're welcome just the same."

I stopped in my tracks. I hadn't really planned for this? The first Christmas I can remember took place in this house. The last time I walked through the door of this house the backyard was Eternia or Metropolis or Sherwood Forest or the North Atlantic or anything else my imagination could conjure. The last time I saw the inside of 3128 Piper Road a little boy lived there. I took a breath and looked back toward the car where my family was waiting for me.

"Yes, if you wouldn't mind I'd love to see inside."

I started up the sidewalk where I had fallen face first while practicing a crane kick in 1984, resulting in a scar that runs along the side of my nose. The old wooden ramp leading up to the front porch was gone, replaced by a fresh walkway and almost seamless set of concrete steps. I hadn't thought about it until I got closer to the house but the old white aluminum siding was gone as well, having been replaced or covered over by "whatever color was on sale" vinyl. The front porch, once encircled by wrought iron and often filled with used appliances for sale was now open and ornamented with a few simple pieces of white wicker patio furniture.

"I'm Robert by the way." I held out my hand. She paused before opening the front door. I think she said Linda or Lisa as she took my hand. I was really so caught up in memories of that front porch that I had kind of moved past introductions by the time she got around to hers.

Linda or Lisa opened the front door and lead me into the first room of the house. The first thing I noticed was how it was organized much in the same way that I remembered it from 1985 with a TV near the entrance and a couch along the front window. I suppose with limited space there are only so many ways you can setup a living room. Of all the rooms in the house this one holds the most memories - a Christmas tree in the corner, watching late night movies on TBS with my dad, waking up in the morning to find random adults sleeping on the floor and a table full of abandoned drinks with cigarette butts floating in them.

Trying not to make myself too much at home I only leaned through the doorway into the kitchen and could have sworn I caught a light whiff of peppermint schnapps still hanging in the air. The old stove where my mom had helped me bake Shrinky-Dinks had long since been replaced as had most other appliances whose colors ranged from Almond to Harvest Gold to Avocado. The linoleum floor too had been renovated with a more appealing faux wood. I recalled the night on that very floor when I learned the hard way never to put my hands near a dog's mouth while they are protectively gnawing on a bone. Maytag violently barked and snapped, not hurting me but certainly giving me the scare of my young life. In tears I was carried to bed having been betrayed by my furry best friend. As I stepped away from the kitchen doorway I could almost hear the mellotron on Bruce Springsteen's "My Hometown" playing faintly in the distance.

I followed Linda/Lisa down the hall and was astonished at how little room there was. I recall at 5 years old running back and forth throughout the house until I was out of breath. Today it takes about a step and a half to clear the hall way. She pushed open the door to what was my parent's bedroom and then the door to my bedroom. There it was. I don't know how we ever put a set of bunk beds, a dresser, a desk, a younger sister and all of those toys in that tiny room. From there, there wasn't much else to see inside the old house.

I wandered around to the back yard and smiled. I was thinking about the time my dad took an old Kirby Vacuum Cleaner (he has been a salesman for the company at some point) and used the built in air compressor to fill up several empty waterbed mattresses with air. Probably a half-dozen giant golden vinyl pillows were spread out across our yard that hot summer day and as a 5-year-old boy there was only one thing to do: run like crazy and bounce off of every single one of them. As I looked out into the back yard I was impressed by what 30 years of sunshine and rain could do. The once large open field of sunlight was now covered in shade and pine needles.

I thanked Lois for her time and began to return to my car, pausing to look down the street my mom lead me up and down in a vinyl He-Man costume on a rainy Halloween night. And I thought about that little boy. Though he and his family had long since moved on I could feel his presence when I had walked through the house. When I left 3128 Piper Road he still believed in Santa Claus. He thought his dad was the strongest man in the world. Superman could fly, every broomstick was a light-saber, every trip down the cereal aisle a chance to start over. Faith was still fragile and childlike, girls were messy and mean, and Rocky, Rambo and Reagan were going to save us from the Russians (and maybe they did).

When I last checked on that little boy, I think he wanted to be an oceanographer or a boxer or a missionary or something.

When I last checked on that little boy his mom had recently read him a book about Martin Luther King and even though all of his friends at the time were white, he really hoped someday he would have a black friend so he could show him that Martin's dream had worked.

When I last checked in on that little boy there was a world shaped hole in his heart and he was ready to take in every square foot.

When I last checked on him.

When I last checked on my little girl she had furiously spun her blankets in a crocodile-like death roll. I cleared half a dozen books from her bed and tried not to step into a pile of Barbies on the floor. I leaned over to prayed for her the way my dad prayed for me many nights just like this when I pretended to be asleep, forehead to forehead, simply asking for angels to protect her through the night. Sometimes we do things for reasons we don't even understand. She's going to be 5 next week. Her memories of our house will last a lifetime. I wish she could meet that little boy who lived in that house on Piper Road. They are so much alike.

Epilogue: I've just finished writing this and it's 3:04 AM. A three month old little boy is sound asleep in his crib. I stop by to check on his breathing and lightly place my hand across his chest. He stirs and stretches and a smile forms across his tiny lips. I don't know you very well yet, Jack but I have a feeling you and your big sister are going to give this place a run for its money. Sleep sound little guy. Your mama needs her sleep too.