The House...

   As the weeks go by, the house is less and less "haunted." Each day (well, weekdays mostly), I take ONE carload of stuff over there. With each trip, the house seems to be settling into the horrible truth that it now belongs to Sarah and myself.
   Already, there is slight disarray evident that puts my own signature on the house. A stack of musical instruments that used to be scattered around my house now haphazardly leans in a corner of the family room. A makeshift bar sits in another corner with its contents overflowing onto the old baker’s rack next to it that has resided there for many years now.   
   As I go, I put some little touches here and there that make it more "me" and, therefore, a bit less tidy. I have to admit to myself and everyone else around me that I am not my father and I am not as neat and organized as he was in the years since mom died. Should I try to keep that status quo? Should I try to become him? I honestly don’t know.
   With the house, along with everything else, I am living in a huge shadow. Mom and Dad were cornerstones of our extended family and represented stability that, I know, people found to be a great comfort. As I add my own touches to the house, I realize that, while I share the genes and a good upbringing, I am not them.
   I have been stressing myself too much by thinking that I will have transform into my father for the good of the family. How can I do that? Sure, I’m loud and grouchy and stubborn, but I think it may stop there. I didn’t have the upbringing that Dad, his brothers, and sisters had. I certainly do not have the same work ethic or staunch dedication to getting things done. I am, admittedly, lazy on many levels. Without the years of physical labor-intensive farm life, I am much softer (and it shows) than he was. Just like my grandfather before him, when Dad raised his voice, people listened (at least they pretended to). When I do, people just laugh or tell me that I sound like him. I am a bizarre parody of the family patriarch.
   I think of Labor Day weekends, Christmases, and other family gatherings that Mom and Dad graciously hosted each year and my promise to bring back or continue these traditions in years to come. I badly want to host these events, but can I live up to the years of memories? The house is a standing monument to my parents, and I feel like people will expect the same classic vibe that the house has provided for nearly thirty years. I’m not sure it will… though I’m going to give it one hell of a try.
   Some members of our extended family circle will not approve of the corner bar or some of the touches that I will put on the house. Some wouldn’t approve of some of the gatherings I plan on hosting there with my circle of friends. Some have not and will not understand some of the things I do for entertainment. While I want to provide everyone in the family with what they are accustomed to, I have to keep at least a part of me in that house. Am I expected to erase my existence and try (and fail) to become my father? I’m not sure how much of "me" is left anyway. Where do I draw the line? So many expectations are thrust upon me, and I understand why.
   To maintain the family status quo, I have to step in and be him. I am all that remains of him and, I think, the family looks to me to be the continuation of him. I represent a future where much of the past recently ended. I understand this and intend to work very hard at it.

   The house, however, is much heavier than the combined materials it is built from.

   I love the house. I spent most of my formidable years there. Most of the turning points in my life happened while I lived there. There are lots of memories, both good and bad, in that place. It is much bigger and much nicer than the one I am trying to empty out right now, but it also carries the burden of a split personality. I really don’t know where I end and Dad’s legacy begins.
   Although I have been keeping quite busy over the last few weeks moving things, it only occurred to me quite recently the conundrum I am currently experiencing.  While I am quite excited to be moving back there and starting the next phase of my adult life (and, likely, the last phase), it is quite a weight to carry.  I have no intention of disappointing any of the family or family friends, but I can't help but think that I cannot measure up.
   It sounds horrible to say, but losing Mom years ago was more emotionally difficult.  Maybe it was because she was the first of them to go and we really weren't prepared for it at that time.  I had no experience in losing parents at that time and hadn't really faced death on a personal level in many years.  Since Mom, I have boasted that "I'm getting good at these things" at each of the many funerals I have attended since.  Can you get hardened to losing loved ones?  Also, when Dad had been diagnosed with the cancer, my head went into "coping mode" from the moment we found out.  Perhaps practice makes perfect in some horrific sense.  Sounds a bit uncaring and, therefore, I doubt my humanity each day.
   Perhaps that's why I am trying too hard.  My survivor guilt (if that term is appropriate here) is kicking me in the rear constantly and forcing me to "grow up" and carry the mantle.  I need to make up for my perceived lack of compassion by turning myself into "Junior."  I feel I need to be a clone (albeit a fatter, lazier one) for the sake of those around me that look to me as the replacement (I know this is unfounded, but a blog is a place to type out this inner monologue).  No one has a gun to my head yelling at me to "be Paul," but I feel I have to.  My life feels like it's no longer mine.
   Maybe it's time to change?  Am I the person they wanted me to be?  Do I measure up?
   The house sends me mixed messages.
   Just last night, I took some of my more childish possessions (contents of my "Geek Room"...some of you know of it) over to the house and a part of me felt that I was sullying its spirit.  It doesn't seem to fit there.  The house still doesn't seem to belong to me, no matter how stubbornly I remind myself that it does.  "Get that shit out of my closet," I can hear him saying, "you ain't junkin' up my house like you did yours."  I still find myself tiptoeing around trying not to piss him off and start the inevitable bull-headed argument that we would have had when I was younger.  Is this normal?  I think it might be.
   The opposite side of that coin is the bitter-sweet excitement that I have such a place to do with as I please.  I have plans and dreams of turning the family room into my man-cave. I'm planning to buy a big flat-screen television as a consolation prize for surviving this ordeal.  The inner child in me is giddy about entertaining friends and having parties there. I am the kind of person who likes to have fun and I am definitely more flippant (feel free to look that one up...I'll wait) than Mom and Dad were. Is this acceptable, or should I grow up?
  So the conundrum (I love these big words, they make me sound smart...I hope I'm using them properly), spelled out in basic terms:

  * I can make the house totally mine and not care what anyone thinks about it and run the risk of my family not being comfortable when they come to visit..or worse,  just stop visiting entirely because it's not what they were used to.

  * I can live in the shadow of my father, erase most of myself in the process, but keep the status quo.

   I'm not, in any way, thinking that the family is that shallow, but I know it will be strange to come from out of town and stay with me, rather than Dad.  I'm one of the kids of the family and I know I will always be viewed as such no matter how grey my hair has gotten.  This is normal human nature and I understand it completely.  It will be weird enough dealing with all that and, psychologically speaking, there will be resentment that I have changed things.  I cannot stress enough that I worry about this every day.
   The house speaks volumes in the form of memories and hope for the future, but it is, not-surprisingly, very tight-lipped on helping me to find some middle ground.