Bringing Home the Duncan Phyfe: Chapter 3

Aunt Edith had come to the wedding and was staying in Port Huron for a while so she offered her house in Detroit to my parents for their wedding night.

Times were different then, I suppose. It's hard to imagine an aunt offering her house to a new couple on this special night--not a condo or beach house or a chalet in the snowy hills--just a brick bungalow in the sprawling neighborhoods of Detroit. It's even harder imagining newlyweds accepting the offer. My mom, who has told us kids this story countless times and whose voice I hear narrating it even now, always reminded us that things were tight and they were trying to save what money they had for when they got to Washington, D.C.

In spite of this goal, Mom also admits that the thought of Aunt Edith returning to her house the next evening added stress to her growing anxiety. "It was bad enough," she laughs, "that we didn't know anything about anything back then. On top of that I had to worry about leaving Aunt Edith's place exactly like we found it."

It was nearly midnight when they reached the street that matched the "X" on the map. Mom had only seen a picture of the house, but the sleepy street lamps lit the way. As they turned into the drive of the fifth house on the left, the headlights hit the address beside the door, and they knew they were at the right place.

"The key is under the mat," Mom said, "I'll stay here 'til you get in."

Dad carried their suitcases up the steps of the brick and concrete porch. The mat was slightly frozen to the stoop, but it broke free to show the waiting key, worn smooth with time.
The kind that requires a touch to work; the kind it takes a while to know; the kind that finds its place just so... before the bolt clicks, and the knob turns, and the hinge gives way to open.

It brings a groom understandable pause to breach an unfamiliar door and beckon his bride to join him in a place they've never been. Even with the owner's blessing, it feels strange to fumble in the dark for the switch; to wonder where to go, what to touch, and where to put your things; to kindle a fire that takes away the chill; to feel both far away and close but not quite yet at home; to wake to a strangely silent room and know you're not alone.

Come to think of it, when my parents stepped into Aunt Edith's cold, dark house on that February night, it was not much different than every other honeymoon suite where innocence is shared.