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LIFE IN PATTERSON
 Alysonn Cassidy / Community Columnist
Yeah, Patterson. See, we came here in ’99 and bought my folks’ home, the time-treasured Bessey house. We hunkered down. We had more children. We made a life here. And I wrote about it all in this beloved funky hometown newspaper.
A favorite (if I do say so myself) was a story about this old house, and how the still-missed Bessey family touched our lives. How their decades of life here had infused ours with love and meaning and a sense of history.
And then, after much ado (and much work), the decision to leave this “hometown” and venture north. But then the housing market slumped. And then the realization we might not want to leave too much after all. So we’re not. And here’s the kicker: We’re tickled.
Life throws a curveball once in a while, and sometimes, that curve’s just the pitch you needed to hit it outta the park.
And so it goes.
One (of many) hard facts of leaving would have been the family we’d have left behind. I’ve got a sister who’s lived up the canyon for years. Get-togethers were a minor chore, her kids growing up in beautiful — if solitary — country. No neighborhood pals, no ice cream man, no skateboarding in the street together till after dark. Her fantasy and mine was always to have her closer.
And then, like I said, this place does it again. That same housing market that kept us from leaving brought my sister, Michelle, her husband, B.J., and their kids down into town to look for opportunities — a neighborhood, a safety net, sidewalks.
She knew it as soon as I did. The sweet little red home with its steep pitched roof, its heirloom lamp always burning in the window … the well-loved Wilkinson home. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, dreaming of it. She drove past it dozens of times. One day, we circled and circled until an exhausted gal in work clothes came out and just asked, “Do you wanna just come in?”
All goose bumps and grins, Kris welcomed us in. Déjà vu. The stories and love emanating from within that house just throw you back. Many Wilkinsons were there; the kids, the grandkids. They were cleaning and organizing it to sell. They shared with us their house full of memories and affection. Before long, the deal was in the works.
Michelle knew that Job One was finding a suitable lamp for that front window. She looked at Tiffany lamps and banker’s lamps and antique lamps. You know those times when you don’t know what you’re looking for, but you feel you’ll know it when you see it? It was like that. But she didn’t. She did settle on one, though. She just had to find one, and it’s a lovely piece.
Just before the final “i” was dotted, we drove over again and the Wilkinsons were there. It was their last visit to the place they’d called home their entire childhoods. Kris’ eyes welled up.
“It’s perfect, really; oh, this is so hard,” she cried. “But you guys here. It’s right.”
And there were hugs and tears and fresh, raw humanity there for the taking. One family saying goodbye, one family saying hello, each to much more than four walls.
Just before leaving them, Kris said to Michelle, “Wait.”
She left and retrieved something from the garage. She returned, and with conviction, she handed my sister the heirloom lamp that’s burned in that front window since … forever.
She said it belonged there.
And now Michelle, B.J. and the kids belong there, and so it goes.
My sister’s my neighbor now, in my second-favorite Patterson house, full of exactly what brought us to Patterson and then surreptitiously kept us here. They’re one block over, and all the kids race bikes between our two places — hers is the one with a very special lamp left on, just in case.
This columnist has been dormant for a while, having taken her first real (translate: paying) job in nearly a decade. Time’s been short, but she’s back at it and is always available to take compliments, commentary and cash at
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Alysonn's back, now i'll have to find something else to line my birdcage!