He was no doubt alerted to my arrival by the barking of his mean-looking rottweiler.
"Can I help you?" he said. His tone was not welcoming.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, this used to be my gramma's house, and I was just taking a picture."
He was unsympathetic.
"How long ago was that?" he asked. His tone was like, "whatever it is, mack, it's ancient history and you should get over it."
"She died in 94," I said.
He said, "Well I seen you out here taking pictures of my house and I gotta say, I don't like that."
He said, "Well I'm renting the place and I'm using my own hard-earned money to fix it up. I took that tree out there yesterday, and I took the old siding off. It had been vacant before I moved in..."
He started telling me his story of how hard he works and how much effort he's put in to the place. I think he might've been ashamed of how it looked, and wanted to point out that he wasn't responsible for its dilapidated appearance. I knew that; I appreciated his hard work to restore it.
I'm sure my appearance didn't put him at ease. Having just come from the funeral, wearing a necktie, I'm sure I looked more like an insurance investigator, a bank foreclosure officer than a schmoe who just came from his uncle's funeral.
My mom, too, had stopped. She saw that the occupant of the house was agitated and came to my aid.
She said, "I grew up in this house. I just came from my brother's funeral and I realized I don't have any pictures of the house I grew up in."
His countenance changed. He softened just a little.
"I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am." he said.
I repeated my apologies and we went on our way.
I hadn't really followed the golden rule, I suppose. I hadn't considered how it'd make me feel to have some stranger come up and snap photos of my house. I'd have to say I probably wouldn't have been thrilled with it if the shoe had been on the other foot.
Honestly, I hadn't expected him to be home. I didn't enter his property -- I took all my photos from the street.
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