The Lonely House

When I looked out our front window last week, I saw a large handwritten sign nailed to the tree in front of the vacant house across the street. Its words scrawled this message: House for Sale. Cash. $30K (or thereabouts). Call 555-1234. I’ve seen plenty of those signs in undesirable neighborhoods in Philadelphia and Cleveland, but not usually in my neighborhood, on my street. The sign was gone within days, victim to a quick sale, a windy day, or perhaps an energetic city code enforcer, but sign or no sign, the lonely house continues to sit vacant.

The house at the other end of our alley has been empty ever since we’ve owned our house. Quite a few of their lonely siblings are scattered throughout our neighborhood and Ashland County, forlorn houses with a story to tell if only we could hear their voices. Family illness or death, a drop in the real estate market, a foreclosure that couldn’t be dodged, or investments gone sour, all contribute to the seemingly high number of vacant homes that dot Ashland streets and the streets of our nation.

A quick internet search estimated there are anywhere from six to eighteen empty housing units for every homeless family in America. Yet ask those who work daily in search of housing for low-income families, and they’ll concur that the rental market in our area is tight. Affordable, adequate housing is hard to find for those with limited resources, and while the idealist that still has a claim to my heart wonders how we as a community might be able to bridge that gap, I’m not even sure what the first step would look like.

There’s much to be said about families without homes, but I’ll save that discussion for another day. But after taking a walk around my neighborhood this week, I’m feeling sad for the homes without families. Now before you suggest a psych evaluation, I understand that houses are inanimate objects that don’t have emotions, that don’t live or love. But still, the purpose for a house is to be lived in by humans, and its walls are happiest when they enclose a human unit of relationship – a family (whatever that looks like in this day and age).

Speaking of family, the lovely Madelyn Simone came for an overnight visit this week, and we read Audrey and Don Wood’s charming book, “The Napping House, . . . where everyone is sleeping.” Somehow, “the Vacant House, where everyone is gone” doesn’t have the same ring to it.  Houses are meant to be homes, a homestead for generations of the same family, places where babies are greeted by welcoming arms and elders gently come to the end of their earthly days, where relationships are forged and sometimes break down.

My writing to-do list includes a historical novel centered around our home, and when I brave the creaky steps that lead up to our attic, it is with the hope that I’ll discover a diary or a stash of love letters hidden in the eaves of our home. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to read of the secrets of life and love from years gone by – of fortunes lost, of telegrams received, of hearts broken? While I know the title has already been claimed by the PBS show, I’d love to “Ask This Old House” to tell me its story, for houses preserve the continuity and character of a community.  

In his poem, “Homesick in Heaven,” Oliver Wendell Holmes spoke of home: “For there we loved, and where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” Feet of all types and sizes have paced the floors and scampered through the yards of the dwellings that now stand vacant in our community, and while the feet have departed, the memories remain. I’m hoping that sooner rather than later, new feet will walk up the steps of the lonely houses in my neighborhood, prepared to once again christen the dwelling as ‘home” rather than house, birthing a new chapter: “There is a house, a happy house, where everyone is laughing.” 

Purple Ribblons

This shouldn’t be happening in Ashland.  Maybe in the big cities, or in some place far away from our home in Ashland County.  That’s where crime happens, that’s where television reporters gather, that’s where a missing woman makes the news – not Ashland, Ohio.  We shouldn’t have purple ribbons on our trees, the purple ribbons that signify domestic violence and the desire to bring a missing woman home to the arms of her family and our community.  But I can see one of the purple ribbons from my kitchen window.  This shouldn’t be happening in Ashland, but it is.

What we know about domestic violence is that it isn’t limited to any locale or to any specific kind of person.  It happens in small towns and big cities, in poor neighborhoods and in rich enclaves, in religious homes and in the homes of those with no claim of faith.  The lesson of the ages is that violence occurs over and over again, all too often between those who claim to love each other, and that people of both genders can be victims and perpetrators (although statistically women are more often the victims of physical violence).      

Domestic violence tends to be a pattern of behavior in a relationship that is used to gain or maintain power or control over an intimate partner (National Domestic Violence Hotline).  Unlike being accosted by a stranger at a random time or place, those whose lives are stained by domestic violence often live with an escalating pattern of words, emotions and actions that put the victim (and her/his children) in increasing danger.

So why doesn’t the victim get out?  Why would anyone stay in a relationship of any kind with an abuser?  If it were only that simple.  Beyond the financial barriers, the concerns for children, and the shame involved in having to admit to failure in a relationship, it may be just as dangerous (or even more dangerous) for a partner to leave.  In a study in 2000, Lees found that women are at the greatest risk of homicide at the point of separation or after leaving a violent partner.         

Because I’ve spent more than 30 years in the social service field, it’s easy to assume that I’ve seen more of this than most, and that’s probably true.  But it’s not the client stories that come to mind, as horrendous as they’ve been.  What I remember most is the neighbor on our street in Dover, New Jersey who was killed by the man who had promised to honor her and cherish her.  I remember the daughter of our maintenance supervisor in Cleveland who was pushed down the stairs by her boyfriend.   I remember our secretary’s sorrow over her daughter’s murder due to domestic violence.  I remember sitting in a courtroom with my friend, a clergywoman, as her marriage was officially ended by a judge because of violence in the home.  My co-workers, my neighbors, my friends. 

People hurt each other, people we went to high school with, people who sit next to us in church.   Men hurt women they love and women hurt men they love.  Idealist that I am, I wish I could wave a magic wand and eliminate violence and the threat of violence from our community and our world.  But there is no magic wand to wave, no crystal ball to predict with certainty which couples will struggle with violence.  And some will, even here in Ashland.

                “Bring Lynn Home.”  The purple ribbons that are wrapped around our community speak their message clearly, as do the t-shirts, bracelets and the thousands of “likes” and posts on Facebook.  But the ribbons speak a louder message for all of the Lynn’s, for all of the Rachel’s (Ashland native Rachel Kiser was shot and killed in April), for all of the grieving families and for all of the orphaned children: let us as a community do all we can so that all of our homes are safe.  As Maya Angelou reminds us, “The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are . . .”   Might it be so.