Here’s to a century of memories in this catalog house
whose timber was erected by a family from Norway by way of Wisconsin
setting their foundation on this scenic crest of Tacoma
for the price of $1,000.
What was it like here
perched above a booming industry town,
steps away from the McKinley streetcar,
on a plot of land teeming with wild strawberries?
That’s what Jennie remembered as a young girl,
running around the house with her two siblings
as her father laid the floors
while eating the wild strawberries on the eponymous hill.
What it was it like to raise a family on Strawberry Hill
through the depression and world wars?
When children walked to the Hawthorne school
through McKinley Park?
What did home feel like during urban renewal?
When neighbors and neighborhoods and schools were displaced;
houses moving uphill,
interstate ripping through their park,
yet here they remained in this house?
What happened to the house after the earthquakes
and who painted the floors brown and white
and where did the original moulding go
and where was the original shower
and what happened to the back driveway and garage?
And here I have come,
a Chinese-American man from Michigan and by way of Seattle,
asking myself these questions
after purchasing my first house a century later and
setting my foundation under this old roof
for a much greater price.
The magnolias in the backyard bloom beautifully
and the fence is slowly rotting
around the remnants of their garden:
the rock walls and concrete strips
that once landscaped their dreams
are now in shambles.
Oh, how this house riddles me,
reminding me of my responsibility for
relentless projects to tend to:
door unable to shut;
sewer unable to flow;
blackberries overgrown;
water seeping into its basement.
Things here were never state-of-the-art,
not like those regal historic homes so meticulously preserved
with care and money.
No. Modest fixes and human choices
carried this working class house into a new day,
but still, how this house was loved.
And here, today, I live in this house;
dance on the original hardwood floors,
sing as I play the piano,
work from home during a pandemic,
hang my Pride flag on the front porch,
and grow my roots in this booming town.
It’s all a bit much, isn’t it:
a century milestone in a historic city,
and me, a young lad with limited handiness,
now at the helm of keeping this house
in all of its weathered glory?
Am I worthy, lucky, or screwed?
This house still stands but Tacoma is not the same.
Nor is the way we live.
One hundred years and a lifetime of changes
witnessed Jennie’s life in this neighborhood,
and now my tenancy in this house, too.
In another hundred years,
neighborhoods will grow
and residents will come and go.
New development will age and fall,
and maybe this house will as well.
The city will continue to change
and a new century of memories await to be shared here,
however that may be.
Many, many thanks to Grit City Magazine for publishing this piece in Hard Copy 14. Check out their great work and pick up a copy on their website here.