It has been brought to my attention that I may have an unusual attachment to buildings. In my mind's eye, I can still see most of my childhood home in Idaho -- which I left when I was 10 -- and I can so clearly walk through my beloved Aunt Grace's house in Kansas, I'm almost able to pick things up and turn them in my hands.
It was a beautiful two-story turn-of-the-century white farmhouse with two front doors, one into the family living room just behind the front porch and one turning right into what would have been the parlor in earlier days. A giant, somewhat terrifying gas stove dominated -- and heated -- the living room, and while it didn't belch fire like the one in "Home Alone," I remember it making some strange and menacing noises during those long, cold Kansas winters.
Straight behind the living room was the dining room, filled with a beautiful set of oak furniture -- a china cabinet, a huge round table, a sideboard, and on the small wall to the east, the treadle sewing machine I learned to sew on. Off the dining room to the left was my aunt's little antique shop -- which is why I know the names of things like Mary Gregory, Steuben, Toby jugs and Depression glass. ("Primitives" were not sold in her shop -- and you should read that dripping with disdain.)
The kitchen had the old, tall, ivory painted cabinets -- and the iced tea goblets were red pressed-glass. Upstairs, there were three bedrooms, all of them also filled with gorgeous old furniture, and a bathroom with a claw-footed tub.
I can see it all -- and I feel extraordinarily lucky, because the neighbor (lying jerk that he was) bought it not to maintain and rent out as he promised but to tear down. It's gone -- and long forgotten by anyone but me.
Also gone but not quite forgotten is the 1902 Queen Anne Victorian Dan and I bought when we were newlyweds in Fayetteville. I mourn for the gingerbread trim, the rolled glass windows, the pocket doors that separated the living room from the parlor and the 4-inch-wide mahogany woodwork. But I can still revisit it, too, in my mind.
As of this week, I'm leaving behind another important building. And trust me, it won't be easy.
Twenty-seven years ago this fall, The Morning News building at 2560 N. Lowell Road in Springdale was brand, spanking new. The newsroom hadn't even moved from our beloved old Emma Avenue office, but editors were driving back and forth to check pages out here.
It was a Friday afternoon -- my busiest of the week in those days -- and I was checking weekend proofs when I got paged for a phone call. The voice on the other end of the line was Gene Tweraser, DHS adoption specialist extraordinaire, and what she said to me was "Hi, Mom!"
My longtime friend and page designer Martha put a chair under me. Otherwise, I'd have hit the floor. What Gene was telling me was that we had been approved to adopt The Little Queen.
For all the years since then, this building has been a constant in my life. It was here that Amanda played when we lost daycare out of the blue and Dan and I juggled her for the summer. It was here I received the delivery of divorce papers I didn't expect. It was here I felt safe when Larry was ill and where I holed up when he died. It was the place I thought would always be home -- even when I was apartment hopping and had no real home, even when they tore down my beautiful house on Hill Avenue. I thought I'd leave it on a gurney, dead or dying. And I was fine with that!
Then my bosses announced that it was time to bring the various departments of the newspaper family back together -- at the Northwest Arkansas Democrat-Gazette building in Fayetteville, long the home of The Northwest Arkansas Times.
I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't break -- or at least suffered another deep and wide crack.
I literally cannot imagine not coming here five days a week. I can't imagine not stopping here when I'm passing through Springdale and need to use the restroom, grab some ibuprofen or get a Diet Coke. I can't imagine not being able to look around at 27 years of ephemera that reflects all the experiences I've had as a journalist. I can't imagine... And not being able to imagine is pretty darn scary. It's like looking out at The Nothing in "The Neverending Story" and not being able to see anything on the other side.
Granted, there's been a fair amount of turmoil for everyone as we try to give away, throw away, take home, take stock of and figure out what's essential in a smaller "bullpen" newsroom. For at least the first week, I was in full panic mode -- not sleeping, grinding my teeth and watching my blood pressure go through the roof. More than one person looked at me like I was crazy. "It's only a building," they said. But not to me.
Eventually, I've begun to see the positive side. Living in Bella Vista makes Fayetteville a whole lot harder to just pop in to, and I miss the sweet little city I grew up in. I'll be able to walk to the Farmers' Market, Cheap Thrills and Hugo's. I can go to more theater on the south end of the world. Maybe I can even have dinner with the friends I don't see nearly often enough!
Before I leave Lowell Road, I can -- and will -- take a picture of the spot I was standing when the Amanda phone call came. I will put all this ephemera in a box so I can revisit it when I get old. I will pare down my "personal stuff" to only a dozen or so pictures of Amanda, my boyfriend and our grandbaby, along with my calendars, an elephant and a panda or six. I can make this work. It's not the first time I've reinvented my life. But this building, while it might look like nothing special, will be another place I go walkin' after midnight, when I want to go "home."
NAN Profiles on 12/09/2018