Jennifer Huffman’s Surrender to Motherhood in Napa County: Time Travel

A few weeks ago, my youngest Huffman and I were in Santa Rosa for the day. On our way back to Napa, I was feeling nostalgic for her, so I took her on a guided tour of her neighborhood where she used to live.

This is where I grew up, I told her. This was her home from sophomore year through her twelfth grade, and she had one or two college summer vacations. That was my room, I pointed to one of the windows. There she parked her 1976 VW van. I have cycled up and down these hills thousands of times.

Well, she said politely.

I understand it didn’t mean much to her. She’s a Napa girl. Santa Rosa is the place to go for a quick errand, middle school volleyball game, or her four-hour rabbit show.

As we drove along the old streets, I talked about each house.

I said it was where one of the other two Jennifers on the block lived. Next door is the house where I broke my wrist while roller skating. This is where his older brother blew his eyelashes while fiddling with firecrackers on July 4th. We found them playing with matches when they were building this house. The couple was growing marijuana in their attic. It’s the pond where David S. pecked me on the lips, the sequoia tree we climbed during hide-and-seek, the house where that really mean girl lived, the house of one of my crushes, and her This is the house where the FBI agent lived with her four. daughters.

Over the years I drove by our old house a few times and never saw anyone outside.

Stopped like a race car driver at a pit stop.

To my daughter’s surprise, I jumped out of the car.

I have to see him, I said.

Hello, I held out my hand and said, I’m Jennifer Huffman. My family used to live here.

oh he said We bought the house from your parents, said Mr Z, the homeowner. We raised our family and have lived here for over 30 years.

Wow, I said; Same owner this time. I couldn’t believe it.

Was there anything left in our house? I wondered.

Is the graffiti still in your garage? I asked him

I think so, he said. do you want to see

I went back to my car to pick up my phone.

I will be right back, I told my daughter. I’ll see if our graffiti is still in the garage.

teeth? she said with a troubled face.

When I was a kid, the garage was home to manual pencil sharpeners. For those of us who procrastinate on homework, a trip to the pencil sharpener was the perfect excuse to take a break from walking up the stairs as slowly as possible. I have written.

I hate math, Chris wrote in 1982.

Up chuck kun die! he added.

“Adventure” game achievements cataloged: gold chains, rare spices, vase of light, pirate chests…

I left my signature and made a small mark each time I sharpened my pencil.

Mr. Z showed me the back of the door. There was my father’s handwriting carefully recording oil change dates and mileage. October 1982, August 1983, etc.

My throat got stuck when I saw my father’s note. He’s been gone for over four years now, but there was his blocky writing.

Mr. Z said to renovate the kitchen. do you want to see

Climb the stairs and enter the kitchen for the first time in about 40 years.

It was exactly how I remembered it, like time stopped. Same cabinets, same knobs, same stove/oven, same gold tile countertops, same window valences, same patchwork print wallpaper!

Wow, I said; It was so real, I could imagine my mother, father, and brother walking in, sitting down, and starting a family dinner like we’ve done a thousand times.

I can’t believe it’s the same, I said.

Setting the table, eating dinner, cooking, throwing daggers at my siblings, being taught (strictly) by my father, asking my mother to help me with my homework, explaining my latest report card, making my favorite cookies, Put almonds in the pantry where you eat all the yogurt, or drop the toaster on your big toe.

Twenty minutes ago, Mr. Z was running his errands. Now a strange woman was growling in his kitchen. This must not have been on his to-do list for the day.

I wanted to see my old room, but I was afraid I would lose it completely.

I returned to the car with my daughter, wiping away my tears.

You have no idea how much this means to me, I told him.

I noticed that his family has lived in the house much longer than we have. He and his wife also raised many children there.

Two families loved the house.

we were the first we are not the last.