Recently I wrote a post inspired by an NPR story that I listened to during a commute. It stirred up memories and feelings and inspired me to write a few posts on what I experienced. Today I want to share the story of the Jones Family.
The Jones Family is not their real name and my story is imagined, not factual, but the foreclosure and what I saw and how I felt was very factual and very real. The Jones Family is with me every day in my heart and in my home, as you will see if you read along.
About six years ago I was assisting my mother with a foreclosure in Springfield, MA for Freddie Mac. She had already had a sheriff involved to verify the occupants were evicted and contracted a vendor to change the locks. My job was to take the company camera and catalog the house contents for the lender’s “trash out” quote. Normally this was a quick job as these foreclosed properties usually contained not much beyond trash. Today, however, would prove very different.
I entered the home and immediately felt the difference. This wasn’t the normal foreclosure. There was no sledge hammer holes in the walls or destroyed kitchen. There was no pile of trash in the middle of the living room or missing light bulbs. This home was as if the family left to run errands and would be home soon. Fully furnished and very lovely, this home was still THEIR home.
It took me awhile to shake off the feeling of being a trespasser. I had a job to do and being moody about it wouldn’t help, I tried to convince myself. I started to snap pictures and take notes. The dining room set was solid wood and while it wasn’t modern, it was good furniture and still looked ready for a holiday meal. The living room had a velvet couch that was dated and somewhat worn, but clearly expensive in it’s prime and set beside a table with a porcelain lamp and books.
Opening closets and peering at family photos was what finally got my emotions and imagination involved.
Mr Jones was a World War II Veteran. His uniform hung with pride, pressed as if ready for action in his closet. On the floor, in a pile of photographs and documents was a box with a medal for valor. Underneath that box was a photo of Mr. Jones proudly wearing his Army uniform with his lovely wife on his arm.
Looking down the hall I see from the certificates on the wall that his service didn’t end with the Army. He was a Shriner and a civic volunteer. He worked in engineering and retired with honors from his company.
Then what happened? This was a stand up citizen, a man who strove his whole life to do the right thing and worked hard to give his family a lovely home. Well…I don’t know how it happened, but Mr. Jones passed away.
It seems an adult child or maybe two moved home to help their mom who seems to have passed away not long after Mr. Jones. Now, I have to really imagine the threads of this tale, but here are at least two of the three children, or perhaps grandchildren, living at their deceased parents house, which is paid off by the life insurance.
Someone decides to refinance the place and they buy cars (left on the site) and drugs (found paraphernalia) and goodness knows what else goes on. Time marches on and the foreclosure happens and instead of packing up the medal of valor and treasured uniform or preserving the collected items and lovely clothing, they simply leave.
Well, I can tell you, I sat in the middle of a bedroom in the Jones Family house and cried. I clutched the photo of Mr. and Mrs Jones in his uniform and sobbed as if my own family had passed. How could their lives have come to this?
I spoke to them while I was in their home. I asked for their absolution and understanding for my part of what must be done and for my snooping. I prayed that they were at peace and their children would be alright. “Please, I beseech you to accept my loving thoughts for you and yours,” I offered. As I sat there, a peaceful feeling came over me. Mr and Mrs. Jones were grateful. Glad that someone honored their life. Call it my imagination if you will, but that is how I felt at that moment.
The “trash guys” were coming the next day with a dumpster to put the Jones’ belongings in the landfill. I began to feel that I had to do something to preserve them, somehow. Before I had gone to the house, my mother had mentioned the dining room set. I had just moved and had no dining room set, nor could I afford one. In a flash it seemed the right thing. I made a request to Mr. and Mrs. Jones and promised that every time I sat at my table I would remember them and all they had accomplished.
Many family meals have gathered at that table since. It is where I sit when I am working from home and where my friends and family gather at special occasions. Every time I sit myself down at that table I honor this hard-working, patriotic family.
A toast: To Mr. and Mrs. Jones.
photo courtesy of Stuart Jones on flickr.com is not actual family member, but merely evocative of my tale
