ECHOES OF THE PAST

RECALLING TIMES WHEN PLACES SEEM TO SPEAK TO US

The decision to leave that wall in our walk-in pantry the color of a banana had nothing to do with whether we were sharing our home with ghosts. Or even if they may have been dropping in from time to time. I’d prefer to ascribe it to an abiding respect for history, neighborhood and family, but there was no escaping the gripping sensation that something would be offended if we painted over that wall. For the record, if you were to pin me down, I’d tell you ghosts most likely don’t exist. At least, I’d say I’ve seen no evidence to prove they do. Indeed, many of you would probably conclude many of my beliefs veer far to the other side, toward mystery and things beyond this physical plane. There is wisdom in Master Yoda’s instruction to a young Skywalker: “Luminous beings are we. Not this crude matter.” (For the record, my religious and

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philosophical beliefs are not informed by sci-fi movies. The occasional pop culture reference just ensures we’re all still speaking the same language.) While the jury continues to await evidence on the existence of ghosts, I long ago felt places do have a spiritual aspect to them. For me, it first came through strongly at age 14 while hiking in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I can’t tell you the name of the trail (my parents picked it) or where we were (my brother had the map), but the image lives forever. The feeling hit the moment we entered a clearing in dense woods, on the side of a small, strangely still pool in the middle of an otherwise rushing stream, amid the mountains. Maybe it was the quiet, the stillness, broken only by bird calls and the dripping and slight gurgle of the stream. Perhaps it was the dizzying color palette of greens, grays, browns and blacks — how could there be so many variations on so few colors? — punctuated by a few splashes of color from rhododendron blossoms. Perhaps it was the sense that this place was old, in a way that few places ever experienced by Americans can be without getting on an airplane to somewhere else. Perhaps it was all of the above. But whatever the cause, the spirit of that place spoke to my soul in a way no place had before. It took my breath away, almost refusing to give it back. In the decades since, other places have similarly spoken to me. And often they come in the places you least expect it. Like the day we moved into our previous home and saw the pantry wall adorned with a chart, listing names and ages next to lines and measurements, showing heights at various dates for all of the children and grandchildren who had either lived in that house, or been frequent visitors, dating back to the late 1980s. Without that chart, the dingy yellow walls in that pantry, under the stairs and adjacent to the kitchen, would have most assuredly received a badly needed refresh. There is no telling, with any degree of certainty, if my wife or I had ever met any of the people whose names were scribbled on that wall. But it didn’t matter, because the feeling was overwhelming: To paint over that chart would be worse than vandalism. It would be akin to attempting to erase a history — not only of the family, but of that very place. So, through the 15 years we called that place home, the banana-colored walls remained. And when our turn arrived, our children took their turn standing with their backs to the wall, grinning and giggling, perhaps along with the house, as we added their names and marks for their height. When the time came to part ways, we paused one last time, to mark our kids’ heights on that pantry wall. We took a couple of photos of the wall and copied our kids’ measurements on a notepad, so we could pick it back up again in the new house. On the way out the door, we said one last goodbye, hoping the next residents — and our kids — would catch the hint and grasp the importance of pausing from time to time, to watch and listen, and perhaps catch the still-beating reverberations of the living echoes of the past.

 Jonathan Bilyk writes about the triumphs and travails of being a modernday dad who legitimately enjoys time with his family, while tolerating a dog that seems to adore him. He also doesn’t really like the moniker “Superdad” because it makes it sound like he wants to wear his undergarments on the outside of his pants. (Also, the cape remains on back order.)

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