Short Story. The Buffington Street Mansion. WA, Bill, Brice, and I lived in a small house we had rented from an older fraternity brother. It was located on Buffington Street, a small two way street that made it difficult to drive on if people parked their cars along the curb. The house was near campus and was about a block or so from our favorite bar, the Hole. It came to be known as the Buffington Street Mansion. When you walked in it was a rare moment if you did not hear Elvis playing on Bill’s stereo. Of course, he only owned Elvis records. WA, Bill, and I had what I called real bedrooms. Brice had a so-called bedroom that was not much bigger than a closet located at the back of the house. He had to keep some of his clothes out on the back porch. We shared a kitchen, living room, and a bath. Needless to say the house wasn’t in very good shape. There was literally a hole in the middle of the bathroom floor that was partially fixed at some point, sometimes we didn’t have any hot water, and the heat didn’t work well. In the winter I always kept an electric blanket on my bed.
It was the house where we watched the nightly news accounts on Nightline of US citizens being held hostage in Iran and the failed rescue attempt. It was the house where we watched the news of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. It was the house where we watched news of the revolution in Nicaragua, a country I would later visit several times and write a book about. It was the house where we watched and cheered as the US hockey team beat the Russians despite the fact we knew little to nothing about hockey. It was the house where we watched the election results that put Ronald Reagan in the White House. It was the house where we learned about the death of John Lennon. It was the house where Bill caught an intruder in his bedroom one afternoon and run him out the back door. Bill believed that the intruder was only after his Elvis albums. We all agreed as the albums were the only things of value that Bill owned.
It was the house that had the best Friday night poker game and the best Friday night party around campus. On Friday night music from the mid to late 60s and early 70s dominated the record player as Bill was banned from playing Elvis during the weekly poker game and party. Terry always came over and set up the poker game and shouted out the music list. Our group song was “The Boxer.” We played it at least twice an hour with China singing the lead and mimicking some of the percussion at the end of the song. Dozens of people were in and out of the house each Friday night. Beer and Paul Jones whiskey flowed freely. The Buffington Street Mansion was where I lived when I completed my MA degree. It was where I fell in love.
I had gotten four tickets to see the Browns and the Oilers play in Cleveland the first Sunday in December. Ryan and I were so looking forward to seeing the game and visiting with my Granny and Papa. It was the typical poker and party night at the Buffington Street Mansion when we jokingly asked Shan and her roommate if they wanted to go with us. To our shock, Shan and “Roomee,” as she had quickly been nicknamed, said yes. That meant we or rather Ryan had to tell Ronnie and Phil that they no longer had tickets to the game. So Ryan, Roomee, Shan, and I climbed into my car after work the next day and began the four and one half hour drive to Cleveland. We hadn’t checked the weather forecast, so we unknowingly drove into a snowstorm on the way up. Visibility was almost non-existent. Ryan and Roomee were asleep in the back seat and Shan was the navigator making sure that I didn’t drive off the road. Ryan woke up at one point and was so frightened of the view out the windshield and the fact that I was going way too fast that he covered his eyes and went back to sleep. Roomee later confessed she dared not even to look outside. I woke them up when we were suddenly airborne after hitting a deer that was already dead and covered with snow in the middle of the road. It took us almost 7 hours to get there and we crashed on my Granny’s living room floor for a few hours. Granny got to know Shan and Roomee that morning and seemed especially interested in Shan. She prepared biscuits and gravy for breakfast for us so we could make it to the noon ballgame. We jumped on the train which was packed with Browns’ fans and rode it downtown to Municipal Stadium.
It was frigid cold and you could see the snow blowing in off Lake Erie and swirling into the stadium. We found our seats on about the 20 yard line. Thank goodness we weren’t sitting behind one of the poles that held up the upper level of seats. We bought beer and it got colder in our hands as we drank it. One beer was enough. Some of the fans in the row below us were passing around a bottle of whiskey which they shared with us. The snow got worse as the game continued and we got colder as the game continued. It didn’t help that Shan was the only person in the entire stadium cheering for the Oilers. I wasn’t sure whether she really liked the Oilers or was just doing it to annoy me or trying to annoy the 80,000 Browns’ fans. Somehow the Browns won 14 to 7 and we headed quickly back to Granny’s house. Shan helped Granny cook dinner while the rest of us talked in the living room. We all had either to work or to go to classes the next day. Before we left that evening I kissed Granny on the cheek. She whispered in my ear, “She’s a keeper.”
At the time I honestly didn’t think much about what she said. We jumped in the car and headed home. It was a quiet drive home with Shan once again acting as navigator and keeping me awake by talking to me. After returning home Shan and I began to date and she became a regular at the Buffington Street Mansion. I never dared to get in the Friday night poker games with my fraternity brothers but Shan joined right in and always seemed to go home with more money than she came in with. Her card playing expertise was inherited from her father and by watching her older brother. By the beginning of spring I had fallen in love. We visited her parents in Texas that summer and also went to Myrtle Beach. In late fall, my father helped me pick out an engagement ring and the following summer we found ourselves getting married in Texas.
After our wedding ceremony we had a dinner at the lake house where Shan’s parents lived. Granny, who had made the long trip to Texas, pulled me aside, “Told you she was a keeper.”
I smiled as I remembered her comment after the football game in Cleveland. “How did you know?’
She smiled, “Well, you of all people should know that Grannies know everything. When you guys came up to the Cleveland game, I saw the spark between you two. Shan helped me get breakfast and dinner ready and I got to know her. I found out that she’s beautiful inside and out. She has a deep love for family and genuinely cares for people. She’s very bright and wants to make a difference in the lives of others just like you. She has the God given gift of empathy, which is rare and special. Finally, she’s practical and you’re an idealist. And you really need someone practical at your side. You need someone who can be your navigator in life. So, I decided right then that she was a keeper.”
As always, Granny was right. She’s a keeper.
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