5753 Coventry Parish Road was the parish house of one of the oldest churches on the Shore. It was situated on a quiet street next to the the Old Rehoboth Presbyterian Church in the middle of Westover. The tall, white farmhouse was the home of the Crosley’s, an Italian-American family of seven. Their family and mine have been intertwined for almost fifteen years. The oldest daughter, Joanna, and I have been the closest of friends since we were eleven and twelve; we were even maids of honor at each other’s weddings. Peter and my two brothers, Daniel and Donovan, have been inseparable. We were all home-schooled together in middle school and attended the same private high school. I was the constant babysitter of the younger three children for over ten years. I’m as close to Regina as I am to my own mother.
Their home was the quintessential Eastern Shore farmhouse. The bedrooms were arranged on the top floor and the living spaces on the bottom. It boasted an enclosed front porch and plenty of cheerful flowers around the front door. Their house abutted the old cemetery of the Presbyterian Church. The yards were expansive and were dotted with magnificent trees just the right size for climbing. As we aged, the backyard play things changed: a tire swing, a trampoline, and a giant rope ladder. A small vegetable and herb garden grew next to the clothesline.
The central room of the house was the kitchen. It was not a quiet room. There was constantly someone washing a sinkful, or two, or dishes. Food was always being prepared or consumed. Everyone would gather around the table multiple times a day. The table dominated the room and was used for everything: homework, meals, art, games, even a hiding spot for the little ones. When my family helped them move into the house, we could hardly fit Regina’s great table through the door. Once, we squeezed seventeen people around that table, the youngest sitting on the oldests’ laps and couples happily squishing up next to each other. Even though it often wasn’t comfortable, it was cozy. It was at that table that I learned to cook dinners and Ray, the middle Crosley, perfected baking desserts. Joanna spent a summer tye-dying everything she owned there. This was the table of engagements, wedding planning, and baby showers. It was also the table of sorrow and death. My mother and Regina would sit for hours at that table with a cup of tea after their close friend, Jackie, passed away. We sat there in silence when there just were not words.
There were weeks that I hardly saw my own house; I was sleeping in the purple bedroom just off from the top of the stairs. That room was too small for two teenagers and the baby of the house, but we made it work. There were three windows, each facing a different direction. There was a bunk bed that Joanna and Danae shared and just enough room on the floor for me to roll out a small air mattress. This was the room that kept all of our secrets. The walls knew every wish, dream, and new love we had. On the summer days it would grow too hot to be confined into that room; we would bike down to the water or the woods to escape the heat. We’d bike to abandoned graveyards and write stories about the lost souls living there.
This house was my sanctuary of hope four years ago. Joanna and Pete had moved away for University, she to study painting and he for business; I had just dropped out and was living in an apartment in Salisbury while working a menial job. My mother had moved away for a job and my father had passed away a few months prior. My boyfriend was finishing up his degree several hours away and my brothers had joined the army. I felt alone, but only on the days I wasn’t at 5753 Coventry Parish Road. Every Thursday evening--or other day I had off--I would drive thirty-five minutes south just to sit in that kitchen. I’d come in after my work shift was over, no matter the time, and be at home. I’d sleep in the purple room with Nay and make up tea for the boys after dinner. I’d watch Danae for Regina and was a companion to the middle two boys. Regina and I painted Pete’s old room for Robby and I made checkered curtains for the windows. We painted the living room and the kitchen. We repainted the kitchen when Pete came home and accidentally set the stove on fire.
No one lives there now. Joanna married a schoolteacher and moved away to start her own family. Peter graduated with his degree in business this past year. Ray, once a boy I babysat, is in his first year of college in New York City. The rest of the Crosley’s moved up to Annapolis into a beautiful home near their family.
We said goodbye to that house this past summer. We said it to the kitchen that had seen and heard so much. We left the great trees in the back without any children to climb them. The tire swing only moves when the wind blows hard enough. The purple bedroom sits completely empty of dolls, hair brushes, and books; those walls will keep our secrets forever. The living room is naked without Joanna’s paintings. The plumbing in the bathroom still leaks, but no one is there to hear it. The house is standing still and empty. It is waiting.
I wonder what will happen to that house. Will it remain empty until it becomes too old and run-down to be livable? Will another family move in? Who will they be? I’m curious about what will happen to it. Perhaps I don’t want to know. Perhaps I’d rather it just lived on in my memories. It may not have been my house, but it has been my home.
