Chapter Thirteen

Andy Robertson had lived on Birchwood Lane for the past twenty-five years. The house he had moved into was the oldest one on the block. When he moved in, there were only three houses on the street. Over the years, he had watched two more houses be built and families come and go. The houses were modest cottages, ranging from twelve hundred to sixteen hundred square feet. Many of the homes were considered “starter homes” for new families or people wanting to invest in their future. He had weathered all the ups and downs of the housing market, happy that his house had long ago been paid for. While the exterior of the house was pristine, inside it needed some work. He felt almost guilty that his five cars were in better condition. Almost. Once a week, he would drive to the other side of town to visit the four-car collection he had in storage there. He wasn’t sure why he kept them. Obviously, he could only drive one at a time. He thought about selling them at an auction, but that would mean he was surrendering to his age. He didn’t feel like ninety, except when he had to get out of a chair.

Andy had once owned the only antiques store in the area, and it had a steady clientele. When he turned eighty, his friends convinced him to sell the store. Ten years later, he couldn’t remember why he had agreed to do so. At least when he had the store, he got to see the people who came in to shop. Now he had to go to see someone, anyone.

Making his way to the kitchen, he navigated between the piles of fabric, newspapers, and magazines that had piled up over the years. Trying to get from one part of the living room to another was like charting a course through a maze. Some of the stacks were so high he couldn’t see over them, and he was over six feet tall. The very thought of sorting through so much stuff made him weary. He occasionally worried that if anything happened to him while he was inside, there would be no way out. Not easily.

He ambled into the kitchen, another room in dire need of a dumpster. It wasn’t so much that it was garbage—just a lot of unnecessary things. How does one sort through years of Time magazine or Life? He knew there was nothing on those pages except nostalgia, but he just wasn’t ready to part with the shiny pages that chronicled the last twenty-five years of his time on Earth. He was also afraid that looking back would catapult him into the present, a place that he didn’t want to depart anytime soon. But he also did not like how the world was unraveling. He yearned for calmer, more peaceful, and cordial times. Times when people actually got out of their pajamas when they went to the store. Times when people greeted each other with “Good morning.” Times when everyone stood up for the national anthem. If he thought about it for too long, it would make him weep.

Even though he barely participated in most social gatherings, he enjoyed visiting the neighbors for summer barbecues. He was always invited, and he appreciated the opportunity to mingle with others, something he missed since he had shuttered the antiques store. He had no family, no significant other. Life could be lonely. He often wondered why that young woman at the end of the block was a shut-in. He thought that if he was still in his thirties, he would be painting the town. To him, her situation was incredibly sad. She had no idea what she was missing, and if she lived to be his age, she would most likely have regrets. He recalled a quote often attributed to Mark Twain but in reality Jackson Brown, Jr. said it:

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines! Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

He knew it so well from memory. It was on a plaque that had once hung in his antiques shop. He looked around at all the clutter. He knew the plaque was somewhere under one of the piles. He chuckled. “Twenty years? What I wouldn’t give to have those years back.”

He thought again about the woman down the street. She could use that plaque. He made a decision. He was going to find it. With any luck, it wouldn’t take too much time. Now, if he could only remember which stack it might be under. For the first time in ages, he felt he had a purpose besides making it back and forth to Sissy’s without sideswiping someone’s car.