As I poured a glass of tea for myself this weekend, I glanced over at one of my kitchen windows and I saw something I’ve seen hundreds of other times—the letters L. B. carved into the windowsill. I have no idea who did it, but it happened before I moved into the house many years ago. I’m not crazy about the notion of defacing personal property, but this particular instance has never bothered me. Somehow it soothes me to know that somebody else from days gone by has saw fit to call my house a home. I’ve often wondered who L. B. might have been. Were they the initials of the carver or of somebody else—maybe a current or past love interest or maybe it was somebody’s way of honoring a loved one who had passed away. At one time, the area I live in was surrounded by meat packing plants. At some point in my house’s history, I’m sure it was home to at least one guy who worked in those plants. Maybe even L. B.
Most of the area I live in was built in the early 1900’s. I don’t know how many families total have lived in the house I currently live in, but at approximately a hundred years of age, the house has seen its share of families come and go. Each one has a story, and I can’t help but wonder how many such stories have been forgotten as each generation died. But with a simple little action, the legend of L. B. lives.
I could probably check the deed or the abstract. Maybe I owe it to L. B. to do just that. At least then maybe I’d have a name to put with the initials. But I still wouldn’t know anything about the person. Maybe that’s exactly how L. B. wanted it. Just to be remembered in some small fashion. If that’s the case, I hope I’ve done an adequate job of honoring his or her wishes with this post.
