House, Christmas were his life

By L.L. Davis: The house -- some would call it a mansion -- was built in the latter half of the 19th century, around 1870. It is an ornate brick home representing Italianate architecture, one of several in this rather historic village.

The exterior is bold with elaborate windows and a heavily ornamented cornice. Three separate porches provide three separate entryways, one in front, two on the north side. As adorned is the exterior, the well preserved interior is exquisitely appointed, with a curved stairway featuring a niche in the wall at the center of the curve and a combination of light and dark woodwork. Two white marble fireplaces adorn the parlor and another sitting room. The house is furnished with antiques in every room, including at least five Chippendale chairs, and the walls are covered with paintings, photographs, and tapestries. This home is more of a museum than a residence.

But someone has to live here.

It is an old, stooped, balding man with gnarled hands and eyes that sparkle like a Christmas tree. His face shines like the sun when he greets a friend, and he has plenty of those.

There are not many in this town who don't know him. He bought this house about 25 or 30 years ago and immediately went to work. Through the years he did indeed create a museum. He loved to host grand parties -- out on the lawn if the weather permitted, or otherwise, in the house with his magnificently appointed dining room table.

He isn't able to do this much these days, but at 84 years old, he will tell you he can still set a table with the best of them, with fine linens and polished silverware. The house had become his life. He was a part of the house and the house was a part of him, and nothing -- in his mind -- could separate them. He could take you on a tour of the home which may go on for four or five hours. Not because the house was that large, but because he needed -- he desperately needed -- to show all his special things.

The chair he found and reupholstered, or the elaborate window treatments he may have fashioned out of drapery from an old theatre which was being torn down. Or the painting of Abraham Lincoln, his favorite president. Everything. He could tell you where and when and from whom he purchased any precious artifact in the house. Or which friend may have given him some ornament or knickknack, or whatever. He remembered all this because he has repeated the tour many times over with anyone who cared to give him some of their precious time.

And, no doubt, he has toured this home countless times by himself when there was no one else around. He worshipped his home. It was his shrine, his cathedral, his creation.

But it was the season of Christmas when he really shined. So much so, he would begin preparing for the season months ahead of time. Putting up trees in every room and decorating each tree with the care and deliberation and attention to detail of a fine jeweler. All through the house you would see Christmas everywhere. Lights, glitter, candles sparkled throughout, but it was the old man's eyes that sparkled the most.

How did he do it? With hands twisted and contorted like the roots of an old oak. It didn't matter. It was worth whatever time it took and whatever pain he might be in. It was the festivity of the Christmas season which meant so much to him.

He wasn't a particularly religious person. Rather, it was the cheer, joyfulness, merrymaking, and most of all decorative aspects of the season which enamored him. This was a man who came alive at Christmas time. Even though he was always so full of life, this was the season when he went into full gear. Let the party begin!

And so now, in the December of his life, the old man is afraid. His fragile, aging body and mind can no longer keep up the pace of the earlier years. Even if he started in January, he could not get everything done on time. There is no one else living in this house, with the exception of a bat or two, on occasion. That is the reason for the wood tennis racket behind the chair in his TV room.

The tennis racket serves a dual role: swatting down bats when they find their way into this house, as well as a tangible reminder of the man he used to be many years ago. He was quite an accomplished doubles player at one time. Now, it is all he can do to get a decent grip on the racket.

He has plenty of family members in the area. Mostly nephews and nieces who do whatever they can to help him. But they worry about him living alone. His health is deteriorating rapidly. Heart disease, diabetes, arthritis, all taking their toll. And now, worse than all, Alzheimer's is setting in. Confusion about time and events. What day is it? What year is it?

"He can't stay by himself anymore. We can't let him. But we've had this conversation countless times before with him. He refuses to leave."

An accident. He falls in the house. Or did he pass out? He comes to. "But where the hell am I?" No one really knows how long he rummaged about in the house. A few hours? Maybe a couple of days? When they finally found him, he was lost in his own bathroom. Off to the hospital. Then after a few days, to a nursing home. After a few weeks, he can come back home for now, but someone will have to stay with him at all times.

It's almost Christmas now and the trees are all decorated, with a lot of help from family. Probably not to his satisfaction, but at least they are up and the lights are on. But he knows nothing will ever be the same again. He is astute enough to know this could be his last Christmas. He is well aware that life has taken its toll on him, just in the same way it has had its way on everyone who came before him.

"But I could have been the exception. After all, I was always so full of life. I had enough life in me for two or three people. And more energy to boot. I loved living so much. How could this have happened to me, so quickly? Just when I had everything the way I wanted it to be. Damn!"

The large Italianate house sits empty now. The furniture, the antiques, the window treatments remain in place. And the trees are still adorned with years and years of acquired decorations. Everything looks the same. Except that it is dark, and silent. And missing one all important little old man, who brought magnificence and life to this place. His place.

If you stand in back of the house after dark, just outside and near the porch, with eyes closed and mind open, you may hear the sounds of a party going on inside. And the muted sounds of Christmas music. "Deck the halls with boughs of holly..."