Underfoot

When there were three of us living in this house together, the place just wasn't big enough for our little family. We were, as my mother used to say, always underfoot. We eventually moved to separate zones, one on each end, and somebody in the middle when we needed our alone times. That didn't mean that we were ever truly alone. We could holler at one another when it was time for dinner, or when it was time to pile into the car. So there we were, back in yet another family-sized space.

Across the street, there was another family, living out their lives in what could also be described as a family-sized place. The square footage was not all that different from ours. They did have an upstairs. They had a back yard, as we did. They had a few more people living in their house. About nine more.

I say about because there was always a stray or two who found their way inside when the rest of the herd finally came inside for the night. Friends or neighbors who needed a roof over their heads, even a roof that was in need of repair. And a floor. There was a beam underneath that was broken and made the linoleum sag. With every pitter-patter of each little foot, that house got a little bit closer to being unsafe. It wasn't just the floor. There were plenty of exposed this and sunken that. Nine kids, two adults and special guest stars lived and worked and played in that space, spilling out into the street so as not to be caught underfoot. That meant that, on occasion, bedtimes were scattered or ignored completely. While we struggled to maintain our little triumvirate, across the street they were courting anarchy—with a dash of the Waltons stirred in for good measure.

Somewhere in there, about ten years ago, the family across the street moved out of that house. Some of them had grown and left for more spacious environs. One of the daughters moved in with her boyfriend just up the street. Every so often we hear stories of one of the siblings. Mom and dad have since split up. And the house that was a rental all these years is now up for sale. My wife and I peeked through the newly installed living room windows ahead of the Open House. Inside, things had been staged with throw rugs, new light fixtures and a dining room set. For four. I expect the beam had been replaced, and even if it hadn't, the traffic created by four would be just a third of what it had once been. Underfoot.