Restoration

"Let's drive by Mom's house." Robert and I were in Los Angeles with a couple of free hours.

It wasn't just Mom's house, but Dad's of course and the three of us. We moved in when I was 6 or maybe 7. Dad died there so many years later and Mom grew old and then she, too, died. Barely in the hospital for only a few weeks.

Neither the three of us or our offspring wanted to live in the beautiful house in the hills, so Kathryn, Charlie and I hired the realtor who advertised his specialty as selling homes that buyers wanted to preserve rather than destroy. To restore.

 How much control could we have over who would buy the house in Trousdale, overlooking the flats where we would have preferred to live so we could walk to school. I did, once or twice, with Jill my friend from the next street over. We were in the 8th grade and it took us a long time. We made it in time, but buffered the walk home with a pint of coffee ice cream and what were labeled as "diet cookies," made of sugar and sawdust. 

Mom's house, our house, was sold in 2006 to a Hollywood manager who went to a Jewish day school in Fairfax. Many years our junior, his father had apparently driven him through our hills and he had always admired the one-story homes with swimming pools. I didn't like most of the other houses in the neighborhood, knock offs of a miniature Versailles or someone's version of a sheikdom. But Mom and Dad chose differently. They built a mid-century modern, one story with center patio and terrazzo floors. And radiant heating and furniture by Eames. I knew nothing of mid-century as we grew up, complaining about hilltop living while nestled in white privilege and comfort.

 At least there was our reform temple and trips to the outer reaches of East LA and my father's preaching against the Vietnam war and racial indignities. We were protected, but not so much that all was concealed from us.

Robert and I drove up into the hills which had shrunk over the years. There were two cars in the open carport of the house that Mom and Dad built. I was feeling brave and unencumbered as my birthday was approaching and why not ring the doorbell even if I had not been back for so many years. A disembodied voice, kind but suspicious, answered my ring. "I am Elizabeth Kert. I grew up in this house." Just a minute she said.

The new owner returned and with a verbal swoon he flung open the door. For the next two hours he escorted Robert and me and Asher, the energetic puppy, throughout the house which he had indeed preserved and restored. There were even more terrazzo floors, filling the living room and replacing the carpet I never liked. The Navajo rug is now in Nico's room, here in San Francisco, but he had filled the space in which it had previously hung with a piece of modern art, Warhol-like in its repetition of the word "fragile." He had restored my father's office and the living room bar with the warmth of new wood to protect the past while giving life to all of my memories. Of course, there was a newer kitchen, but the new sink and stainless appliances were placed exactly where Mom had cooked waffles or washed dishes.

 In the backyard he told us about the tree that a few years earlier had fallen on the house. Old with weakened roots. The arborist said it should be removed, as it leaned precariously. The new owner refused. "That tree was here long before I came." And so, cables were attached and the tree was pulled upright.

 He gave us kumquats from another tree and offered cans of sparkling water and a bowl of food for Asher. We wandered slowly through every room. My bedroom and my sisters had been joined into one. There was no more sandbox or treehouse. Windows had become sliding glass doors but their handles were fabricated to perfectly match others which had been there long before.

We saw pictures of his movie stars and talked about Barbra Streisand, Dad's patient. How I met Steve McQueen and sat on Groucho Marx's lap. He talked about my mother's spirit which he is sure resides with him in his million-dollar restoration. He has copies of her books and was sure the television in her room was turned on the day he moved in.

 Seeing the house again, after so many years. Walking leisurely through every room, noticing all of the changes and what vestiges remained, I knew that he had not extinguished the light of my mother or my memories of pool parties and meals at the glass table in the center patio where Dad held court with a flyswatter in hand on balmy, Beverly Hills nights. Before the new bamboo floors and the open kitchen. Before the tree fell or the new hot tub was added for what I imagine are Hollywood soirees. Before the restoration was featured in Architectural Digest years after Mom died. Wouldn't Dad have been so proud that his desire for a new, modern house became the dream of another nice, Jewish boy.