Requiem for a Requiem

When I started this blog, I thought it would run for a few weeks. A few weeks turned into a few months, and close to 40 posts later, I am finally wrapping things up. Not that I’ve said everything I wanted to say on the subject. For instance, I’d like to tell you more about:

-How I believe the house at 841 N. Maplewood was built in 1911 and after a discussion with realtor and west bluff resident Pat Kenny, we decided the house was a modified Craftsman

-The long crack in the living room ceiling that looked like Abraham Lincoln sitting in a chair

-How we could hear the thunder of the races at the Speedway on Farmington Rd. like the cars were zooming down Western

-Making regular trips to Convenient to gorge myself on candy—to say nothing of Mr. Donut or Baskin Robbins. What a trifecta!

-The issues of development, land use, conservation, historic preservation (Maybe Cooper, Rebecca and the Uplands should consider trying to become a historic district.)

-Hitting tennis balls against Morgan Hall

-How far you can trust institutions, even institutions that are practically encoded in your DNA

-The day Maplewood changed its one way direction. I think this happened in the middle of the day with all the cars that had parked for the day facing the wrong direction when it came time to go home.

And, of course, I could go on, but requiems must end. I thought finishing this blog by the first day Bradley starts classes would be appropriate. Here are just a few more thoughts.

Before 841 N. Maplewood was knocked down, my brother Jim and I visited the house. We are only 18 months apart so our memory pools are similar. One of my earliest recollections from our home was bedtime. Jim’s room was at one end of the hallway and mine was at the other. From his baby bed, he would call out, “Wee-a!” the syllables and vowels in my name being hard for a toddler to say.

On the day we visited the house, we went down into the basement, the least changed part of the house. The musty smell was exactly the same. We walked through the room where the ping pong table had been and poked our heads into the small, dark room where we took refuge during tornado warnings. Jim pointed out a cutting board from our old kitchen that was propped up against a wall. My parents had later used the cutting board as a base for the Christmas tree stand.

“I think that’s the spot where we left it,” said Jim.

Out in the front yard, in the light of day, I talked about the sadness of the house going. Jim thought for a moment. “It’s good not to get too attached to things that aren’t permanent,” he said. This is true, and as a priest, he keeps the truly important things more in mind than his older sister.

A couple of weeks ago, West Peoria councilman Tom Dwyer told me he enjoyed reading my blog. “Yeah, it’s sad. The old neighborhood is gone,” I said.

“But the spirit stays alive with you,” he said.

A major part of my childhood occurred in the seventies, so I’ll close with the words from the following song. Sing along if you know them.

“I’m so glad we had this time together.

Just to have a laugh or sing a song.

"Seems we just get started and before you know it,
Comes the time we have to say ‘So long.'

"Good night everybody!”

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My mother gave us the above drawing after we moved from the house. The inscription reads:

"You never really leave a place you love: part of it you take with you leaving a part of you behind."