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Archive for the ‘this old house’ Category

A white, slightly dented white car in the driveway means Philip is under roof. A respectable Dodge with just a hint of the rakish to its lines angled into the asphalted slot where a big old tree once stood means Lucas is home. While my pickup languishes in the airport Economy Lot (long story, one for another day), the presence of either of these Sanders-family chariots mean that Son Christopher is also within the walls of this old house.

All of this good.

As I return from my bike ride on a hot Sunday afternoon, I see that the LAN party has ended. The cars of the LAN partiers have returned to their erstwhile nest.

In the circles that frequent this old house, the ‘LAN party’ is a product of Costa Rica days. A pack of digital-native sons developed the multi-day/night computer-game frenzy that goes under this moniker. They shut themselves in the chosen home, connect into a Local Area Network (thus ‘LAN’), take vows of chastity against the allure of sleep and her un-mannish siren song, and stock up on Mountain Dew. Then the games begin! (more…)

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One never knows the potency of love until one has been brought low.

I was reminded of this on Sunday as I sat by the bedside of a life-long friend who had for nine days walked a bumpy road of recovery from cardiac surgery. ‘Forgive me, I’m going to cry a lot today’, my friend warned at the outset. And he did. We did.

‘The body of Christ has been phenomenal … overwhelming.’ He groped and did not find all the words he required. As I entered his room, an attractive and bright-eyed African-American woman of substance had just departed his and his wife’s Caucasian company. ‘She’s our pastor’, my friend’s beloved explained. We luxuriate for a moment in the unspoken beauty of how human need and divine touch unite the broken and invigorate the shattered.

‘I’ve had heart surgery … and I’ve had heart surgery’, my friend told me. (more…)

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Lucas is an enigma.

A twenty-something business student in Indianapolis, Lucas grew up with my oldest son in Latin America. Yet he is here. I mean right here. In-the-house here.

By some generous act of Providence, the apartment Lucas shares with two colleges students and an undisclosed but not absurd number of acts, suffers an infestation of flees. I have never before been grateful for fleas, but I am so now.

Lucas has, over the years, hung out in somewhat irregular fashion in our house. When I use to hang out in this generic sense, I do not mean anything as defined as to spend the occasional evening, to come by to watch the Super Bowl, or to join us for dinner. Those connotations do attach themselves to the concept of to hang out. But they do not define Lucas. (more…)

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Surely this old house has seen its domestic drama. Its sturdy structure cannot eradicate the drama and pathos that cling to human beings and the dense clusters and knots we call ‘family’.

On May 31 of this annus horribilus my beloved departed this old house. I was abroad, through aware of the scenario that unfolded as my wife’s friends nudged their cars and their vans and their trucks into a driveway into which we had all nosed homeward on countless shared evenings.

No longer are mornings and evenings in this place a shared and common thing. She is gone and I am alone in this old house. (more…)

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They built this house, on what must have been Indianapolis’ far north side, in 1930. Peace in Europe was, fleetingly, twelve years old. Men who had clung to the trenches’ muddy, bloody edge were deciding whether to talk about that to their ten-year-old boys.

An economic shattering so profound that it can still be called the Great Depression was using up its second page on a nation’s hungry calendar. Improbably, the land just across 64th Street had been donated by John and Evaline Holliday fourteen years earlier to the State of Indiana on its one hundredth birthday. I reckon the proximity of Holliday Park contributes a third to the value of my home. (more…)

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