Una's little home on a corner lot in Los Angeles sold quickly. No doubt a developer will demolish it and put up one of those square monsters which rents for something between 3,500 and 6,000.00 a month or more. I cringe, but all things pass and sometimes you can feel a harsh wind as it does, slamming the door of a beloved past.
Una's daughter, Joey, one of eight raised in that very house, had lived with Una in her last several years. Now that Una is gone and the house sold, and she was ready to leave Los Angeles to be closer to one of her own two daughters in another state, a couple of us wanted to take her out for a proper goodbye lunch. And, to be frank, to have one last look at the house in which many of us had gathered for parties, and brunch and spontaneous cups of tea on any random visit. I always feel a little guilty about this, as I said in a prior entry, because I can't imagine what it is for an already large family to have to share her, that all over the place there are people who had adopted Una as their surrogate mother. And just as the kids, at her funeral, pointed out that they vied for her attention growing up, I think it is likely true for some, ok, many of us, that we vied for her attention as well. And it was always special when we got it.
The house is pink, inside and out. Una loved pink, and if you visited, you loved pink also. I closed my eyes and imagined where things used to be as I walked on the wood floors that now echoed the sound of my footsteps. To the right of the door, a baby grand piano, overflowing with photographs of children, grandchildren, nieces, friends of long standing. In my memory, the piano wasn't played much, and every time I saw it, I told myself that one day I'd go back to lessons and retrieve the skill I had begun to have as a child. To the left a hand made tapestry of Una and the names of each of her children. A large side table filled with alcohol that only came out at the St. Patrick Day parties. And next to it, a grandfather clock that bespoke days gone by, a time of gentility and family. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. On an opposite wall, near the entrance to the dining room, a tapestry church chair, with high back, that Una's Monsignor Uncle had given to her years before. I had never really noticed the lovely fireplace at the long end of the room, complemented by two French doors. At the main one opaque wall a couch, pink of course, with country scene paintings above it. And a large cocktail type table in front, also full of things that reminded of friends and family, little gifts, or vases of flowers. Then you'd move into the heart of the house as I reckoned it, the dining room, the place of weekly Sunday dinners, and the repository for chili and roast beef and turkey and ham with the trimmings for frequest party buffets, and of course, for the spontaneous cup of tea when you visited. Every time you visited, pretty much without fail on the delicate Aynsley bone china, a Pembroke reproduction of an 18th century design, feature flowers and a perched hummingbird. I mentioned last time I wrote that it was lese majeste to place a carton of milk on the table. Always the milk or half and half had to be in a proper comparable china dispenser. Another rule, we all knew, bar none, was that no cup went without a saucer. Mugs just weren't done. On sunny days, everyone went outside to the patio, surrounded by high hedges and offering a fair amount of grassy ground for a house in Los Angeles. I hear the cross mixed voices and the laughter of people that have long passed. And now, so too is the house. One day I will pass the monstrosity that replaces it (I do hold out hope otherwise, but it is a remote one), and it will be as if it never were there---except my memory will know, and the photos I took to preserve the visual as best as I could. In one of the back rooms, my companion and I noticed a box with the remnants of the china, some big plates and saucers for the tea cups. There were no tea cups. I really wanted to ask to take one or two of those plates as a memento, but I was afraid to ask. Happily, my companion did, and we both took with us evidence of a lovely, warm memory.
As we left, on the way to Hugo's for lunch, I noticed that some of the multiple rosebushes at the front of the house (and there were many at the back), were gone. I did ask about that because if the china was one of the material items that evoked Una, so were the rosebushes that gave the most splendid blossoms. Since Joey wasn't leaving until a few days later, I wanted to see if I could come back and take a small one for my little terrace. And it would be another chance to say a goodbye to Joey before her adventure to a new chapter of her life.
So on April 1, I came by, and was given entry by one of Una's sons who happened to be removing rose bushes in the back, I assume to be planted at his house or the homes of one of the other adult children who live in the area. Joey was doing some last minute errands and I sat outside on the patio, as I had done many times before and could not imagine I would not again after today. Joey returned and asked, "Do you want a cup of tea?" I could barely restrain a tear as I can barely restrain as I write this. Una's very words. The usual china was gone now completely, and what Joey had were mismatched pieces I didn't recognize. There was no milk but Joey had a liquid vanilla extract with Bourbon, which we used as a substitute. And was quite tasty. We reminisced on the patio where endless numbers of people had gathered over the 70 years that Una owned that house. I had been one of them. It's a fact I will cherish.
The last cup of tea at Una's. I was honored.
And I got a small rosebush. I am not sure if the transfer will allow it to survive, and I've never had much of a green thumb, but today I notice a bud. And it makes me very happy.
The cottage itself, home for 70 years and the site of much joy.
The path to the front door
