Martha Franks

  It was 1994.  Taking care of my parents was taking its toll.  Every time the phone would ring at work, my first thought was something had happened to Mother or Daddy.  Most of the time, it was something else.  Daddy was becoming increasingly forgetful.  He would go visit someone at the hospital and forget where he parked in the garage.  He would go to the wrong level and then think his car had been stolen.  He became a regular with hospital security.  They would take him up the levels until they found his car.  He was also getting into minor fender-benders.  Mother was getting around better from her stroke, but she had to use a walker.  My brother and I decided that we had to take the car keys away from Daddy.  He cried a lot about that.  I had to do the grocery shopping, because we just couldn't let him drive.
  An option came our way.  Since Daddy was a Baptist minister, they could get into Martha Franks Retirement Center in Laurens, SC.  It was run by the SC Baptist Convention.  In order to get money for their move, we had to sell the house, their two cars, and most of their stuff.  We got an auctioneer to come and sell the stuff in an Estate Sale.  On the day of the sale, I went around to prospective buyers and told them the history of the pieces.  The prices they paid got to be a little bit more with my stories.  Yes, I could sell.  After all, I was in retail.
 My brother and I drove our parents to Laurens, which was about 70 miles away.  I drove Mother, and my brother drove Daddy.  Mother was resigned to the move.  She knew she could no longer stay in the house.  Daddy cried all the way there, because he was going to miss his friends.  He cried for 3 months after moving in but got more used to it, because he had friends there too.  Later on, he found to love Martha Franks as did Mother.
 I had to find an apartment to live in, since the house was being sold.  I found one at Ravenwood Apts. in Forest Acres, about 10 minutes from work.  It was a two-bedroom which worked well, because I had so much memorabilia and records.  My last day in the house was my birthday.  June 17th.  It is kind of funny how one can equate a date with something else.  I was in the den, lying on the floor, watching my 13" TV.  All of the networks were showing one thing--the low-speed chase of the police and OJ Simpson.
  I was not part of the sale of our house.  I left that up to my brother and the real estate company, so I didn't know who bought it other than it was a couple from Charlotte.  A couple of years later, I was working in the TV Department at Rich's.  One Saturday, a woman came in to buy a TV.  As I was putting her information into our computer, I asked her for her address for delivery.  She said:  "1810 Belmont Drive".  I added before she could say:  "29206".  She was surprised I knew where her house was, and I explained that was my parents' house where I grew up.  She proceeded to tell me about all the stuff that was wrong with the house that she and her husband had not been told about.  Things like the den's toilet overflowing due to roots in the line; the crack down the wall of my old bedroom because of the weight of my records that messed up the foundation; and the drain in the patio outside that floods the den when it rains.  I just said I was sorry.