Wavy Glass

Lucky. That's how I feel... lucky and blessed to live in an older neighborhood. Quite a few homes around here hail from the turn of the twentieth century. My little casita happens to be in an area known as the Cottage District, as was our former home. Here one can find as much variety in architecture as in square footage. It's not unusual in the least to see a modest cottage sidled up to a modern two-story build. Though in its inception this area consisted primarily of "meat-and-potatoes" homes, the present-day mix perhaps makes this area even more interesting and charming.

I enjoy taking walks along these streets whenever I can, admiring the beautiful oaks... taking stock of the flowering bushes and vines - the plumbago, honeysuckle, queen's crown - that grace so many of the yards and fences. As lovely as the flora is, nothing catches my eye as quickly as spying wavy glass in the windows of a home as I pass.

You see, I have an affinity for old stuff... old houses, old cars, old black and white photographs. Wavy glass is one of those "old" things that just does it for me. I love how the glass ripples ever so slightly as it follows your movements, and how the sunlight - when it catches the pane just right - can make those "waves" seem to personally greet you as you walk by.

To tell you I've loved all things antique since, "I can't remember when," would be a lie. My appreciation has been slow to develop. I had no idea what I was missing.

Discovering a house with that beautiful old glass is like coming upon treasure for me now. I can't help but wonder about the life that unfolded within its walls. My curiosity is piqued to learn its history. Did a flag hang proudly from its porch during wartime... was a gold star displayed in its window? How many children have run up and down its stairs? Was life happy... was it good?

Old houses that have stood the test of time are things of value, like faithful friends. They have weathered all manner of storms through the years and have been the places of refuge and comfort for their families who have done the same. Old houses have stories. They have tales to tell if we're willing to take notice... and to let our hearts listen.

People are no different.

Every day there are people around us... "wavy glass" individuals with stories to tell, but we have to take time to notice... to listen. I wish I had learned this lesson sooner.

When I was a teenager I had the opportunity to sit, to probe, to glean the wisdom of former generations, but I'm ashamed to say I lacked the interest. Oh, don't get me wrong. I wasn't a disrespectful kid. I just didn't have any great, burning desire to hear about the past. I had grandparents and great aunts and uncles that had seen and lived through all kinds of things... things I would give anything to know about now. I'm sure they would have been more than willing to share, had I cared to ask.

I treasure the bits and pieces I do have stored carefully in my memory box. I take them out every so often to examine them, dusting them off lest they become fragile and fall apart. I chuckle to myself when I think about my dad telling how he drove an ice truck, making deliveries long before he had a license to do so. I remember his recounting the time he ran that truck into the back of someone's car, and when the man got out and yelled at him, "Son, don't you know how to drive?"... my dad respectfully replied, "No Sir, I sure don't." My father always ended that story describing how the man burst out laughing and remarked, "Well, at least you're honest."

That's one in my box.

My dad had a few stories like that of growing up during the Depression, how he and his brother helped their mom make ends meet by mowing yards for pocket change, and how he worked the cash register at the grocer's while standing on an apple crate because he was too little to reach the keys. I heard anecdotes here and there of lacing up skates at the roller rink for tips from the soldiers with their dates, and of how he often walked home nights on deserted streets after his shift at Weber's Root Beer Stand was finished.

My mother had stories too. She contracted polio as a teenager. I always knew her to be vivacious and bubbly. I couldn't imagine she had ever been anything but... but then again, I never really asked her about it. I knew she almost died. I knew she spent time in an iron lung. I knew she missed a lot of school and when she did return it was with braces on her back and legs. I knew that when she fell, which was often, she learned to laugh at herself to keep others from feeling awkward.

I "knew" the facts, not the feelings.

I wish I had asked my mom and dad how they managed to persevere despite adversity, and in the midst of it. I wish I had implored them to tell me more about their lives before I came on the scene. I wish I had told them how much I admired them. They knew I loved them. I'm certain of that because I said so, many times. For that I am grateful. What I'd like most of all is to tell them how much their stories have given me in retrospect. I want them to know how much I've learned even from the bits and pieces, but I'll have to wait for heaven to do that.

Do you have any storytellers in your life... any "wavy glass" individuals with gems to share? If you do, or if you ever have, then you are lucky and blessed too.

Maybe it comes with age, but - whatever the reason - I'm thankful I have learned to appreciate and value stories, and not just those of the old houses with wavy glass, but also the stories of the times and experiences of individuals who have lived, loved, and authored them.

I hope never again to pass by without taking notice...

...and letting my heart listen.