b'final mattersThe Ghosts of MemoriesYour home has a story to shareBY KEN GAGNET he gentle ghost appears ininDusk sneaks up on us like a prank-our living room window.ster. We head downhill. The famous On the sidewalk, myMaplewood fox darts out of nowhere wifeandIchatbeforeandscampersunderahedge.Now taking a walk. The ghostwere back on our block. The homes lit knows well only be goneup, the air still warm, the walk has fed anhourortwo,notfor- our souls. Theres a moving van parked ever. She wont be lonely. Shes not alone.thedistance,hazardsblinking.New The ghost loves our house because she wasneighbors arriving, or former ones leaving. born in this place. Theres nowhere shed rath- Whatever purpose that house had served, itll er be. soon serve another. A brisk breeze swirls. I tug on Its midweek, late afternoon, weirdly warm for win- my sweatshirt and ward off the chill. Someday, my wife ter. Not quite T-shirt weather, but close. The seductive prom- and I also will move away. Well live in a different place on a ise of spring saunters in the air while we amble down our long, flat street anddifferent street in a different house. That new house will become something else pass a dozen close-quartered dwellings. All of them are the same but different.for us, whatever we need. Someday. But not yet.Functional reminders of a former age, more than half of Maplewoods 8,600As we stand in our yard, facing our home, the gentle ghost waits in the win-houses popped up before 1939. These strong, old homes have stories to share.dow. I smile and understand what this place has been for our family. Its the As we stroll toward the end of the block, my wife and I peek into windows,same for every family. More than an office, canvas or sanctuary. More than a because thats what walks and windows are for. I consider the many ways ahome. This house is a museum. A living museum of memories, good and bad, house might serve a family. These structures are more than bricks and beams,pain and joy. Holiday parties. Sibling shingles and stucco. Theyre more than just homes.scuffles. Birthday sleepovers. Dying We turn a corner and quicken our pace. Up ahead, a Fresh Direct truckpets.Homeworkbattles.Giggling idles in front of a handsome gray colonial. Through a large window, I spy afits. Each moment displayed in the middle-aged woman wearing headphones and hunched over a laptop in thehallwaysofourminds.Anendless dining room. Propped on a metal stand in front of her, a ring light glows like agallery of love. cockeyed halo. This house is an office.My wife and I walk up the steps On a newly paved road, adorned with chalk rainbows and smiley faces, weandapproachthedoorway.Before pass a vibrant Victorian. Through a second-floor bedroom window, I spot aweenter,theghostfadesintothe painted mural of a silly circus scene covering a back wall. A purple tricycle withwalls,intotheknockingradiators frilly tassels on the handles is parked on the walkway. Through the first-floorand creaking floors. She seeps into panes, we see colorful artwork, vintage vinyl, rustic furniture and stacks ofthebonesofthehouse.Butthe books. This house is a canvas. Teeming with creativity and personal expression,ghostisnotahaunting,vengeful it mirrors the soul of the family. Every nook whispers a secret, every object hasspirit. Shes just the incarnation of a a meaning, every fridge drawing reveals the heart of a child. memory, one of a million collective memories, created and curated by everyone Daylight wanes. We turn another corner and trudge up a hilly street. Its ain every family who ever lived here. tough climb, the kind I like to avoid, the kind my wife loves to tackle. In theStrange, we purchased our old colonial 25 years ago, but we dont own this yard opposite us, a fallen oak slumbers, uprooted during a recent storm. Be- house. It doesnt belong to us. It belongs to the remembrances we keep, the yond the toppled trunk, on the homes front porch, a casserole tin and a vase ofghosts born in this place. We open the door and cross the threshold. Memories lilies await retrieval. This house is a sanctuary. Healing from an illness or losingflood the room, fill our hearts and welcome us home. Theres nowhere wed a loved one, the folks here need more from their home than ever before. Underrather be. this roof, they retreat and seek solace in their familys embrace. Its where theyKen Gagne is an author and Maplewood resident. His books include themes of mend, surrounded by the warmth of relatives and friends.belonging, self-discovery, and family love. Visit his website at kengagnebooks.com.42/ matters magazine / hearth + home 2024'