THE HOUSE OF REMEMBER WHEN

By Scott Jameson Sanders

The House of Remember When focuses on a middle-aged man, Neil Moreland, who is dealing with a broken marriage, a boring job, and an estranged father suffering from dementia. Written in first-person narrative, the story weaves significant life events into his present-day problems as Neil attempts to put his life and family back together. Fro

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Mulberry Books
• Release date: Jul 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952405815

Scott Jameson Sanders

Scott Jameson Sanders is the author of six published books including "The Box Salesman", "The House of Remember When", "Call Me Cecilia", "Driving Through Shaker Heights" and "The Point of Life". He is a musician and an avid pickleball enthusiast. Scott has worked in the food packaging business his entire career and is the composer of over 200 original songs. He lives in the Cleveland Ohio area and has two daughters and a very sweet dog named Ginger.

Book preview

The House

of

Remember When

A Novel by Scott Jameson Sanders

Preface

It was the fifth inning and the other team’s best hitter was at the plate. He was a left-handed batter and I played right field, so I knew to be prepared for the ball to come my way. There was one out. I was fifteen years old that year and only a sophomore, but I started for the high school varsity baseball team. We weren’t that good, but I was having a decent year for a kid who didn’t work at the skills of the game very much. Nevertheless, the coach believed in me and let me start in the outfield even though I wasn’t a very good fielder. I learned later in life that I had a vision issue in my right eye that affected my ability to judge distance. This is not a good thing for an outfielder. But in those days, right field was the area where the least amount of hits traveled (given that most hitters were right-handed, and they usually pulled the ball to the left side). As a result, I often went full games with nothing more to do than chew on a blade of grass and daydream.

But this guy at the plate was big and he was left-handed, and we knew from the scouting report that he had good power. There was a runner at first who had walked in the previous at bat. My coach motioned for me to move back a few steps, so I backed up extra deep as it would be easier to come in on the ball than to go back. For the first two pitches, our pitcher was trying to keep the ball away so the batter couldn’t make too much contact if he hit it at all. And walking him would not be the worst thing. There was already one out with only one on, so no need to give him anything good to hit. But the third pitch of the at bat was a mistake. It was a fast ball that leaked out over the middle of the plate and the batter swung and connected solidly with the ball. I knew instantly that it was coming my way and that it had been hit well. I started running back as the towering shot traveled toward me. But this was more than hit well. This ball had been crushed.

It was a home game for us and strangely, the varsity field at our school had no outfield fence. The only barrier in right field was a street, but it was very far back and down a small declining hill. So home runs on this field were mostly a matter of the speed of the runner as all hit balls (normally no matter how far they went) could be retrieved and thrown back into the field of play. Thus, there really wasn’t much of a limit on how far back I could run unless I hit the street . . . which was so far out it had never been reached by a hit ball in a game.

The ball continued to travel toward me and I ran back farther and farther. At this point, I wasn’t sure if I could get to it, but I continued running back and then suddenly I felt that the flat surface of the outfield become harder. And then I felt my steps start to descend and I realized that I had somehow reached the hill that angled down toward the street. The ball was very close to me now, but I wasn’t sure what to do. If I kept running, I could run into the street and slip or even be hit by a car. Instinctively, I threw my left arm up toward the ball that was now arcing its way down to me. And then the seemingly impossible happened. The ball hit solidly into my glove and I closed my grip around it before hitting the street pavement ahead.

I turned around and saw my coach yelling something and waving his arms to have me throw the ball back. It was either too far away to hear him or I was still in a daze from catching the ball. I ran up the hill and threw the ball as far as I could. It was a terrible throw that curved badly away from the cut-off man and toward second base. But it was then that I realized that the guy who started on first had already rounded second and was heading to third. He could not have imagined that I would catch that ball. It would have been a home run easily at any other field with a fence. To this day, I don’t think anyone thought I could catch it, much less catch up to it. Yet, despite my poor throw, there was still plenty of time for the second baseman to retrieve the ball and double off the man who started at first base. Double play. Three outs.

As I jogged back to the dugout, I first noticed the huge smile of my coach. Then the other players came up and patted me on the back.

Great catch, remarked the coach. Nicely done.

Great play, man shouted an elder teammate as he patted me on the back. How the hell did you catch that thing?!? Fuckin’ awesome!

All right, guys, let’s use this as motivation to get back into this game. Come on now. Let’s get some runs! the coach shouted out, still beaming with joy.

I took a seat on the bench before I was nudged by our catcher that it was my turn to bat. I was still in a fog wondering if it had actually happened. I was not the guy who made the great play or made the last second shot to win a game. I was an average athlete with less than average confidence. But this had truly happened, and I realized then that it was a big deal. People would be talking about my catch in school the next day and maybe for a while after that. I lazily walked up to the plate with my bat and considered this could be a moment that I might never forget. And I never have.

Excuse me, son, the umpire said in a friendly manner. You need to wear a helmet to get into the batter’s box.

As I felt the top of my unprotected head, I turned to see many of the other players on my team laughing that I had forgotten to wear a batting helmet. That woke me up a bit out of my euphoric daze, but I didn’t really care. At least I didn’t forget to bring the bat. I did stupid things like that a lot in those days, but it didn’t change the fact that I had caught a hit ball that no one thought could be caught.

I don’t remember if we won the game or if I did anything else good that day or even that season. But I will never forget that catch and the feeling I had for several days and weeks after. If it could have been on video, I know I would replay it often, but video cameras were not yet common in those days. It is one of my favorite memories and I can replay it in my mind as often as I want. No one can take that accomplishment away from me. If only there were a way to bottle that feeling so you could keep it with you, especially when times get tough. And we all know that no matter who you are, life is going to totally kick you in the ass at some point. This story is about one of those times.

Chapter 1

Time Is Linear, Life Is Not

What would you do if you learned that there was a way to go back in time? If you could, would you choose to go back and relive one of the best moments of your life? Or would you choose instead to correct some past wrongs? Would you want to meet an important religious or historical figure? Jesus? Mohammed? Mr. Rogers? Would you go back to a significant event in your life? We all think about it, right?

Many books and films from the past have explored this time travel topic with incredible creativity. I love these stories, but no matter how they describe the time-traveling experience, there is a critical flaw in all of them. Put simply, it is impossible and against the law of nature as we know it to go back in time. Once we have lived the moment, the moment is past and gone forever and it becomes history. And besides, even if we could go back, it is also impossible to relive a moment without having it change the previous outcome. Or worse, it would change the future in some dramatic way and everything you know could be negatively affected. So, time travel is a myth and all these tales we like so much are just enjoyable fiction because time travel is impossible. That is what I believed, that is, until the day I entered the strange looking house with the green door at the end of my street.

In early November, in the eastern suburbs of Cleveland, the sun rises at approximately seven o’clock in the morning. Unfortunately for me, my dog has to relieve herself one hour preceding that, so I am left to walk her in the virtual darkness of the late fall mornings. On some lucky days, however, the light of the moon can sneak through the ever-present clouds in northeastern Ohio. And that was the case this fall morning as I walked Dingo down the full length of our suburban street.

As I strolled sleepily along Sterncrest Avenue, Dingo did her normal smelling of every weed, rock, and twig in our path. Our dog was a classic mutt and, yes, I named her that because of the Meryl Streep movie. I thought it was funny and no one in the family argued with me about it, so the name stuck. She was a good dog and, in many ways, my best friend. She loved me unconditionally and I still marvel at how dogs never seem to be in a bad mood. I have had a dog my entire life and still dream about my childhood dog, Gordon, who died when I went off to college. I was heartbroken when I found out he had passed away. He was a rescued mutt too and had a nasty habit of biting people for no good reason, including me, but I loved him anyway. I’m still not completely over that loss, but I vowed back then to always adopt a rescued mutt, and Dingo was no exception.

My goal on our early morning walks was to get Dingo to do her business as quickly as possible so I could return to get my essential hot cup of morning tea. But Dingo is smart. She knows not to urinate too quickly, or I would immediately turn around and head back home. My eyes were only half-open this morning as I gazed ahead at the rows of mostly colonial homes that lined both sides of our street. Our neighborhood is a typical Midwestern middle-class suburb, except that our street contains homes on unusually large lots. For the most part, the smallish houses just don’t seem to fit the expansive lawns in front of them. This characteristic also leads to a neighborhood where people don’t congregate together very much. The ample spacing between homes provides plenty of neighborly insulation, and truthfully, I like it that way.

On most of my walks, I like to keep to a familiar pattern and I usually turn right at the end of Sterncrest onto Jackson Lane. But today, Dingo wanted to turn left for some reason. She jerked at the leash relentlessly until I agreed and shifted my course westward. In this direction, there is a house at the end of the street that has a dimly lit green front door. It is an interesting shade of green that really stands out. The hue reminds me of many cars from the ‘70s which fits with the house’s outdated style of architecture. The structure itself is a white-plank ranch-style home with two dormers and a small chimney on the east side. It is smaller than most of the other nearby homes and with no particular charm except that it marks the end of Jackson Lane. Thus, as you walk down this street, you walk directly toward the green door of this old home. In my twelve years of living here, I had never seen anyone enter or leave this house. I heard once that an old woman had left it for her children, but none of them had come to claim it. I had occasionally seen someone outside to cut the grass, but the once-manicured gardens and hedges were now all overgrown.

As Dingo (the dog) and I approached the end of the street, I gazed ahead at the house wondering why no one had ever thought to move in or renovate it. Our neighborhood is a desirable place to live, with better-than-average schools and a reputation for being relatively safe. Plus, a house that is ignored for too long starts to look strangely sad as if it knows it has not been loved or cared for. It fascinated me to think that no one lived there and yet the property wasn’t even for sale. In my opinion, the house looked . . . lonesome. Was there an out-of-town relative who simply paid to keep the grass cut? If so, why wouldn’t he want to sell it? Was there some sentimental attachment to the house? Or could it be that the house was cursed and that whoever had lived in it went totally insane. As I continued to ponder the myriad possibilities, my thoughts were interrupted by Dingo barking at the front door of the old home.

Shhh. Dingo! I said to my dog, thinking that I might at least pretend to appear concerned that someone in the neighborhood could still be sleeping.

I looked around and up and down the empty street as the orange sun began to peek through the clouds. Dingo was pulling me toward the house for some reason and this was something she had never done before. Giving in to her, I started up the front walk toward the door of the solemn and potentially cursed old house. What the heck am I doing? I thought to myself. There could be people watching me. This could even be against the law and who knows what lurks inside there?

I don’t believe in ghosts, goblins or spirits, but I have no desire to test the supposition either. Was I nervous? Sure. In my opinion, it is smart to have a healthy fear of certain things. For example, I have an enormous fear of bungee jumping. I mean, who in their right mind volunteers to be the first to try out the bungee cord? What if the rubber line is slightly too long for the drop? Don’t rubber bands stretch and break over time? If you keep using it, won’t it be ready to snap someday? Again, no matter how safe they say it is, I am not going to bungee jump. And usually I felt the same about entering a potentially haunted house. Nevertheless, I continued to let Dingo pull me along toward the front door.

When I got to the front stoop, I looked at the flickering yellow light above the door. The paint on the ceiling above was peeling and there was a small window in the top panel of the door. Beneath it was a tarnished brass knocker. I stepped up and peered into the small window opening on the door. The inside entryway was devoid of pictures and furniture and all I could clearly make out was a dark wooden staircase. There was one couch and a ladder-back chair in the front room, but no other ornamentation. There were several closed doors down the main corridor and I noticed that one of them had a broken door handle. The old rusted door knob lay in solitude on the floor below looking like one of those antique artifacts from the sunken Titanic.

Very strange, I said out loud as Dingo scratched at the doorframe. I tried to tug her back to continue our walk, but she continued to hold firm and pull towards the door. She wanted in there, but why? Why today? We had been down this street before and she had never wanted to go in. What was inside? We all know that dogs have these incredible instincts that defy human logic. Like when dogs sense danger and do amazingly heroic acts to save their masters. And then there was that lost dog that walked across the entire country to find his relocated family. Dogs are simply amazing. So maybe there was something in there that I needed to see. If true, shouldn’t we go in? Or what if there was something wrong with someone inside and I needed to find out what it was? I have a responsibility to do that, right? But there is also a penalty for trespassing, and I was already on the verge of voyeurism and I’m pretty sure that is illegal.

Forget it, girl. Not today, I said to Dingo as I tugged on her leash to turn around and head back down the street. As we walked along, I sensed a strange feeling inside, like I had eaten an old hot dog or some bad chili. I knew that feeling had to do with that house and it left me wondering why suddenly out of nowhere, I just had to go look inside. Dingo seemed to feel the same way as she continued to look back as if she had left a bone back there on the stoop. What was it that drew us and made us both so curious? I was scared and uncertain, but I knew I would go back. I had to go back. And when I did, I discovered far more than I could have ever imagined.

Chapter 2

Life is Like a Crossword Puzzle

(We Figure Out the Pieces as We Go)

My wife and kids were all at the kitchen table when I returned. I had been gone a full hour, which is significantly longer than my normal morning dog walk. My wife, Rachel, was doing the usual weekday routine, which included yelling at the kids to stop fiddling and finish their breakfast. My two girls were arguing about something when I arrived. I entered the room with Dingo, who proceeded to make a dash for her water dish. I had obviously missed breakfast as the plates on the table were mostly empty.

What took you so long? my wife asked indignantly.

Nothin’, I said back to Rachel, who was now putting dishes into the dishwasher.

I thought you got mugged or something.

No. Not mugged, but there was a house on fire down the street. Fortunately, I was able to save everyone inside and put it out with a neighbor’s garden hose. Dingo helped too. She saved their cats, but then chased them down the street. I hope they find them. Right, Dingo? I uttered as she lapped and slopped water all over the kitchen floor.

Rachel continued to clear the table as if I had said nothing. My wife is a highly motivated type A individual, and my theory is that she feels she literally does not have the time for my sense of humor. Either that, or I am not very funny.

Do you know if anyone has ever lived in that house at the end of Jackson? I inquired as I moved toward the cupboard to get a mug for my tea.

What house?

The one with the green-colored door. The one—oh, you know, that looks haunted.

How should I know? Rachel stated mindlessly while I dipped a tea bag into a cup of hot water.

I just looked into the window and it’s empty. Nothing in there but an old wooden chair and dirty couch. I’ve never seen anyone go in or out. Have you?

Is that what took you so long? Peering into empty houses? Rachel remarked with disgust. Honestly, I have never paid it any attention, but someone should clear the lawn of debris occasionally. It’s a mess. I hate it when one bad apple spoils the whole neighborhood.

In addition to being a type A, my wife is also a freak about proper appearances. To me, I couldn’t care less if someone a quarter mile away wanted to paint their house hot pink or put gnomes all over the yard.

What bad apple? What do you mean? my nine-year-old daughter, Mary, asked as I sat at the table and jerked a green permanent marker out of her hand.

Dad! I need that! Mary barked as she attempted to grab it back from me.

No, sweetie. The ink goes right through the paper and onto the table. See?

I pointed at an ink stain in the area where she was writing. Our once-proud kitchen table has seen its better days. I wasn’t totally sure if I was pointing at the right mark, but I pretended to be confident that this mark was the correct one for today.

I had the marker first and she took it from me, Jessica interjected. Mommy says that I can use them, but only if I put dews-paper down first.

I’m writing on paper! Mary exclaimed. So why would I need a newspaper?

My daughter, Mary, is the most practical one in the family. She is smart, but like