Under One Roof: How a Tough Old Woman in a Little Old House Changed My Life. Barry Martin

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СКАЧАТЬ – the anger I’d expected from her hadn’t materialized. But I felt a little sad, too, to see this old woman, apparently living so alone.

      “Well, nice to meet you, Miss Macefield,” I said. The concrete truck had passed, and the rumble of cars coming over the bridge had stopped for the moment; all of a sudden the air was still and silent, the way it gets on a warm spring day. You could hear someone mowing a lawn a few blocks away, it was that quiet.

      I had introduced myself to just about everybody who would be affected by the project, but as much as I knew this was all just part of the job, this particular introduction seemed different – I mean, we were going to build a shopping mall all around this lady’s house. I couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Or actually, I could. A hell of a lot of noise and dirt and debris and destruction. I had the urge to sugarcoat it a bit, to try to make it seem less disturbing than it was likely to be; but one look at Edith and you knew: this was not a lady who took her medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

      “Miss Macefield, I just want to let you know we’re going to be making a whole lot of noise and creating a big mess. There’s no way around that. But if you ever need anything, or have any problems, here’s my number. Don’t hesitate to call.”

      “Well, that’s very nice of you,” she said, taking my card, holding it up close to one eye, then tucking it into a front pocket of her slacks. “I’m glad to have you here. It’ll be nice to have a little company.”

      As we talked, she picked up a bag of birdseed and started spreading it on the sidewalk.

      “Like to feed the birds, do you?” I asked.

      “Every morning,” she replied. “I’m running late today. Had a little trouble with insomnia last night, so then I fell asleep and woke up a little late.”

      “Well,” I said, “let us know if you need anything.”

      “Thank you,” she said, and then, as I walked away, I heard over my shoulder: “You can call me Edith.”

      I heard the rumble of the cars across the bridge nearby. I thought I got a whiff of that baseball-card bubble gum, too. I looked back and saw Edith struggle to get down to her knees, until her whole form was tucked behind the chain-link fence that faced her house, as though she had revealed just a little bit of herself, just for a moment, and now she was going back into hiding.

      It’s funny how the most momentous conversations of your life – or the ones that turn out to be the most momentous – can seem, in the moment they happen, so mundane.

      I stopped one more time and turned back to look at the house, standing lonely and deserted on that broken-down street. It seemed impossible, but the developers had already offered Edith $750,000. Three quarters of a million dollars, probably ten times what the house was worth – and she turned them down cold. I guess I should have known going into it that I would run into people who would give me a hard time, building a big, hulking mall around that tiny house. The other side of town – if you looked to the left of the Ballard Bridge as you crossed into town, instead of to the right toward Edith’s house – was already the site of a lot of new development, development that many people thought was killing the character of good old Ballard. And the deals had been closed to build a whole lot more. Because Edith’s was the last house standing on her block, people saw her as a symbol, a force against “yuppification,” against the overdevelopment of old neighborhoods with character and charm. I was the man bringing in change, she was the woman who wanted things to stay the same. That same Seattle Times columnist who wrote the story about the homeless people, Danny Westneat, had also written a column in February about Edith’s so-called last stand. A few days later, he wrote about how that column had “unwittingly unearthed an entire community of folks who have been captivated by her for years.” He quoted one resident as saying, “I salute her for standing up to some of the ‘progress’ that’s coming to Ballard.” Another one wrote, “I’ve come to love this lady, and I don’t even know her.”

      Someone in the office showed me the article, and when I read it over, I was struck by the ending of it, what the guy wrote about Edith. He said, “How she lives and the choice she made to stay put seems to spark powerful feelings in total strangers. It did me, yet I’ve spoken to her only three times. I think it’s because she’s genuine. Authentic. She’s living the life she’s got and not asking for help, pity or money.

      “What does it say about us,” Danny wrote, “that we find that so remarkable?”

      As the days went by, I didn’t have occasion to talk to Edith again, but I noticed that the birdseed was, indeed, out on the sidewalk almost every day before we got to work. It was funny, but all the guys started watching out for it – and for her. After a while, if the birdseed wasn’t out by 10:30 or 11:00 a.m., somebody would let me know. The first time, I didn’t think much of it, but the second or third time, I decided I’d better go over and check on her.

      I knocked on the door.

      “Go away!” I heard her shout from inside. “Leave me alone!”

      I was stunned. I was sure she’d change her tune when she realized it was friendly old me.

      The rumble from the bridge had quieted down. The wind had kicked up, though, and nearly blew my baseball cap off my head. I tried again. “Edith,” I said, “it’s me, Barry, from the construction site. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

      “Are you deaf?” she yelled. “I said go away! Leave me alone!”

      I thought, well, okay, this is what everybody told me to expect. Shouldn’t be surprised.

      “Well, just glad to know you’re okay,” I called in, making one more attempt to rescue this conversation, if you could call it that. “Let us know if you need anything.”

      I guess that insulted her, like I was saying she couldn’t take care of herself. “I’m fine! Go away!”

      I walked back over to our construction trailer, scratching my head. Was it something I said? It’s pretty hard to mess up “Hello,” though. Once again, I felt like a little kid who’d gotten yelled at by the teacher.

      I got the same response the next few times I went over to check on her, over the next couple of weeks, trying to get a look inside and make sure she was okay. Maybe I should have been offended or pissed off by that, but to tell you the truth, I really just felt kind of sad for her. I figured maybe she wasn’t feeling so well, and there she was all alone. I also felt kind of embarrassed – I don’t even know the woman, and here I am, popping open her mail slot and peeping inside.

      I started to wonder if maybe there weren’t two sides to Edith: the polite, gracious, friendly side, accepting of the change all around her; and the cranky, crotchety side, quick to anger and to take offense. And I thought, maybe there was a reason for that. The first time I went over, I treated Edith with dignity and respect, and she reacted the same way – pleasant and courteous. But maybe she didn’t like it if she thought people were checking up on her; she didn’t like what that implied, which was that she couldn’t take care of herself. I think that’s what happens when people get older. They know a time is coming when they won’t be able to take care of themselves, and they’re fighting it. They don’t want to admit what’s happening and it makes them mad when you remind them. That’s the first lesson that Edith taught me, and I didn’t know it then, but it would be the first of many. For the time that I knew her, Edith’s little house would become my schoolhouse. She taught me about what I guess they call the continuity of things – what we learn from the older generation and what we pass СКАЧАТЬ