It occurred to me as I was applying putty to a new windowpane in Benjamin Bernard's back door that the final acts of "homeownership" at 7740 Bernard St., Lasalle were to be mine. I tried to imagine the pride of ownership that my father-in-law would have no doubt felt 30 years ago when he turned the key to enter for the first time with his family of 3 children. His firstborn, Carol, was destined for many things, one of them to be my wife, but entering into her family home for the first time that day she would certainly not be thinking anything of me, or how I would be the one to close these doors for the last time for the Bernard family.

Sitting on the rear porch with Carol and David the previous Saturday, eating my jerk chicken, rice and dumpling, I had asked what the backyard had looked like in its heydays under my father-in-law's care. I was told where the garden was laid out - the largest plot in this corner, a narrow row along the rear fence and more to the side of the house. I stepped down from the porch into the yard to better survey things and noticed the small, rather funny-looking door from the basement shielded by a concrete door well about two feet deep that was only big enough for the door to swing open into it. Carol pointed out that this door was one of her father's special requests of the builder. None of the other duplexes in this neighbourhood of nothing-but-plexes had a basement door for the main dwelling. Probably none of the other homeowners had farming in their roots quite like my father-in-law.

So it was Benjamin's unique door that I was repairing, having broken in this way after turning the front door key the wrong way and breaking the lock. On this final day of my passing by this house I was forced by my forced entry by the rear to introduce myself to the neighbours. To the first neighbour in the building next I recounted my woes of having broken the front lock and he was a listening ear. To the neighbour immediately behind I related my plans of removing the putty and small windowpane so that I could unhook the door. He counseled that I would probably break the pane despite my efforts, but lent me a putty knife from his tools anyway.  On this last day we became neighbours - he lent me tools and I lent a hand with his fence repair.

Once inside and ready to set to my task of removing the appliances, I found three last pieces of mail at the foot of the front door. The first was a Christian magazine addressed to my wife, the second an Acura owner's magazine addressed to David, whose Acura had indeed taken him across borders into better things. The third, a brown envelope covered with colourful Jamaican stamps, was also to David, sent from his father at 4 Wint Rd. It was as if my father-in-law had found a way to participate in this last day in Lasalle while at the same time keeping his distance. There were thoughts of my mother-in-law, too:  Though the kitchen was empty I could still picture her pulling the turkey from the oven and offering it to me and my new bride on the day after our wedding. Her washing machine which must have dated from the new house beginnings was hard wired, not to be unplugged with ease, and the supply taps, which were now seized-up, had possibly never seen another hand since she first turned them on.

Evening now had set upon my first and last full day's adventure in this house. I cleaned up and changed clothes in the bathroom, late for an annual business meeting of our church but not wanting to rush out of this place that had likely seen too many such rushes-off-to-church through the years. Out of respect for this house I would take the time to walk through each room singing "Great is Thy Faithfulness" and thanking God for providing this place for Benjamin and Icilda, Carol, David and Paul. Then, leaving, pulling the front door shut with finality knowing I could not re-enter, I left with joy singing:

I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free. His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me.