The House

People often ask me how I ended up in Evanston- with an undertone that suggests it's a bad thing.  While that might be the subject for another post, I have noticed that Evanston has a boomerang effect  on people- they come, they leave, they come back.  Our family first moved here when I was in first grade.  I spent the first six years of my life in Lincoln Park, but I guess my parents didn't want to raise their children in the city.  We found a nice house here across from my new elementary school, and when my father retired a year later he hosted the best Grilled Cheese and Hot Chocolate go-home-for-lunch breaks (with apple slices).  My friends loved to come over and play with our neurotic dog and run back to school just in time for Spelling Class or what not, full on homemade goodness and my father's charm.  I went to the local middle school for fifth and sixth grade, but then my mother got transferred to the NW suburbs and my sister decided she needed a horse and, well, we ended up moving to Barrington.  Fast forward through the fighting and the tears and the harsh words and the plates being thrown, and my parents divorced three years later.  My sister graduated high school in three years so she could Get Out of Dodge, and my mother took the dog and me back to Evanston for sophomore through senior year.  She rented a house for a year before purchasing a lovely three-story colonial in northwest Evanston.  And she truly made it hers.  I remember coming home from school one afternoon to find her standing on a chair in the dining room and painting the walls red.  The next week the living room was marigold, and the kitchen was spearmint.  After 16 years of oyster white walls it took some getting used to on my part, but I took to it very quickly. 

And it was her house.  I went through a severe depression in high school and was in and out of

psychiatric hospitals for years, so I never really lived in the house for more than a few months at a time.  When she asked me to leave for good I lived on my own for a while, then went to college for two years, went overseas for half a year, finished up school at DePaul in the city, and lived in Lincoln Park for the obligatory few years before you realize you are too old to live in Lincoln Park.  Whenever I was at the house, though, the neighbors were wonderful to her.  She was diagnosed with Parkinson's while I was abroad, and her friends and neighbors were so helpful during that time.  Years later, when she couldn't put her coat on by herself, she would stand outside and wait for somebody to walk by and help her.  She never waited more than a minute or two. 

I moved back to Evanston eight or so years ago- I've lost track.  Dad came back after several years in Texas, where two of his sons were living, but he was getting worse and worse at hiding his Alzheimer's and it was clear he needed help.  I found an apartment four blocks from his, and it was great until it wasn't.  What started as me occasionally checking in on him quickly led to me going over there several times a day to make meals and manage his affairs, then moving him to nursing homes, then managing hospice and Medicaid for two and a half years.  Meanwhile, Mom had formed more ties in her neighborhood- the kids across the street mowed the lawn and shoveled the snow; the family next door invited her to New Year's Eve parties; the block had Flamingo Friday parties where neighbors would come with wine and food and enjoy summer evenings together. 

Mom is 70 now, and has been living with Parkinson's for 13 years.  While it's well managed, there have been plenty of falls, blackouts, fatigue spells, forgotten conversations, and other symptoms on top of the tremors.  A few years ago her health was compromised enough so we thought she would be on an irreversible downward spiral, but new medications and regular acupuncture and yoga have helped turned things around and she's doing quite well- even driving sometimes, much to my chagrin.  But the house was becoming too difficult to maintain.  Even with two boarders (she rents out my old room and my sister's old room), there was too much to do.  I was strongly encouraging her to looking into long-term care, but she decided instead to sell the house and buy a condo in downtown Evanston.  And the house sold in a day.  And the movers arrived this morning.  And last night the house looked like a disaster zone.  And after work today I'll join them wherever they are and help unpack or order dinner or let her take a nap.  I already have a bottle of wine in the car, and tonight I'll toast to her sparkling water (she doesn't drink) to this next chapter.  So long Hartzell Street, you've done good.