Number 4 Panton Street

We left Number 4 Panton Street today. Did you know that's where we live? Yes, it's the little house just across the street from the Chemistry Department, with a silver number 4 on the beige door. Beige. Not a color I was very keen on, but suddenly I don't really mind it so much any more.

Probably because behind all that beige-ness, are a whole lot of memories. A thousand and one perfect moments with my family here in Cambridge.

As we said good-bye to Cambridge and Number 4 today, a lot of those moments came flooding back to me. Each of them special, each of them so wonderful I wish I could catch them all and relive them over and over again. Really, I wish I could take a snapshot of our home with all five senses.



First thing, would be the sound of Henry pressing the doorbell. It's only been a few months that he's enjoyed pushing the bell and knocking on the door, but it's just so sweet. It all began while Derek was plugging away on his dissertation in our bedroom upstairs. Henry and I would be out having adventures and spending money on chocolate, and we'd come home for lunch and naps and to see Daddy for a few minutes. Henry starting ringing the bell, because then Daddy poked his head out the window to say hello. His little squeals, the way he kicks his legs, flexing all the muscles when he sees his Daddy.

Well, I guess I got ahead of myself--of course there would be the sound of Henry singing as we walk up Saxon Street to our house--"ahhh, ahhh" he sings as we bounce along the cobbles. Then, the excitement and pointing when I say: "Where's Henry's House?"

But wait, no--the sound of Number 4 Panton Street must be the sound of our ridiculous vacuum. Mr. Henry opening the cupboard door and asking to vacuum. His giggles when he chased it around as he crawled, or his distress when he thought it was "his turn" to vacuum and I wasn't quite done yet. I'm sure it would be accompanied by my mummers and the washing-machine in the background--the incredible noise as it spun and spun, shaking and acting as though it were changing it's name to Apollo 13.



Next, would be the view from Henry's window. Lots of rooftops, with the sun setting behind them. Our first morning in Cambridge, just a few hours after we arrived, actually, Derek went in to say good morning to Henry and they ended up looking out the window. Each day after that, Henry wanted to part the ugly curtains and see the beauty of our neighborhood. Or, perhaps our neighbor's cat sitting on the rooftop watching for mice and things that are nice for kitties to eat.

Of course the moments from every morning will be imprinted on my mind forever. The warmth of the sun peeks through the cracks in the curtains, and Henry's standing up in bed with a big grin on his face. When he was first standing on his own, he would pull himself up and push the button on his Nana-made mobile to listen to the songs and pull on the felt balls. We could hear the music from our room next door, and it always made us smile. Derek or I would walk in to have him giggle like mad, acting as though he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. But that smile, oh that smile, when he first sees you in the morning. The arms coming up, the hands opening and closing as he asks to be picked up. That is the sight of Number 4 Panton Street.



I think the taste of Number 4 Panton Street would have to be Cadbury Eggs. Oh, how Henry and I loved sharing Cadbury Eggs this spring! Or the hundreds (seriously) of bars of Galaxy Chocolate. As soon as Henry heard the sound of the wrapper, he would come bouncing in to the kitchen. "Mmm, mmm," and then, eventually, "peese, peese!" to get his own piece. The moment it reached his little mouth, he "mmm, mmm"-ed, his appreciation audible.

Or maybe it would taste like bread with oil and vinegar. I never knew a one and a half year old could love vinegar so much! Henry would open the pantry, point at the vinegar and ask for some. One piece of bread would be dipped dozens of times, soaking in the vinegar that he sucked off with pleasure.

But maybe, to Henry, it tastes like warm milk. Sitting on the couch, his blanket draped over our legs, as Daddy read to us. We read an entire book as a family like that, Henry and I on the couch, Daddy sitting in the chair with the desk lamp on. The best was at Christmas when our tree was nestled in to one of the book nooks on the wall. We had all the lights off except the ones on the tree, and the three of us sat and cuddled while Henry drank his milk before bed.




Somehow, the smell of Number 4 Panton Street is laced with old books. We collected a few during our time in Cambridge--a beautiful Christmas edition of the Dickens' classic, A Christmas Carol, and our last week in Cambridge a very early edition of The Screwtape Letters, both from G. David in St. Ed's Passage. But old books aren't the only ones.

The smell of new books is certainly present, too. Like Hairy McLarey, one of Henry's favorite board books that we got at Heffer's one day, just because. We read it a million times, it seems, and Henry always got excited when we reached the page with "Scarface Claw! The toughest Tom in town!". Or maybe the newest Book of Mormon, presented to Henry by the missionaries for his first birthday. That small blue book has been opened so many times, the pictures looked at, and the stories shared. Verses read while the missionaries taught investigators in our home. Every time we cracked open that book, the smell of print was there.



Number 4, though a brick building, will always feel like a fuzzy blanket to me. When Henry was so sick at Christmas, the only way we were able to get him to sleep was to wrap him up in one of our fuzzy blankets from Primark. From Christmas on, the blankets went with him all over the house. They turned in to magnificent blanket forts with Daddy, the corners stuffed into the cushions on the chair to hold them up high. Or humble ones as they were draped across Daddy's legs and Henry would clamber underneath, reading his books or singing to himself beneath the safety of the fuzz. The blankets were always there in the middle of the night, Henry draping his arms across the top of the bottle when he was little, or pulling on his feet as he drained the milk. So many memories with these ridiculous fuzzy blankets. When it came time to take a horrendous load of stuff to a charity shop, I started to load up one of these blankets. But I just couldn't do it. I couldn't take it out the door, never to see it or snuggle with it again. What would Henry say?

Far less comfy, but just as important, were the pokes of our holly wreath that hung on our door from the beginning of December and then on past New Year's. We bought it at the market, carefully chosen among the other wreaths because of its bright red berries. Henry would get so excited when he saw it, reaching out to gently touch the leaves as we stepped through the door.




I wish I could take these memories and upload them to a drive that plays all five senses when you need a bit of comfort. I know there will be times in the future when I could use a minute or two of our simple life in Cambridge. The life of the three Brutons. Sleeping in, going for walks, and snuggling at the end of the day. The life where we often went adventuring, but when most of our adventures included just spending time together at the park or in a punt on the River Cam.

Number 4 Panton Street will always be "Henry's House" to me. Where he learned to crawl, to walk, to say his first words. It will be where we spent Christmas clinging to our cough syrup and our fuzzy blankets on the couch, all three of us fighting a cold but so happy just to be together. It's where Derek and I figured out how to be parents. Well, the parents of an angel child, anyway. Where we carried Henry up the incredibly steep stairs to his own room, singing to him as we laid him down next to Duxford to sleep. It's where Derek and I stayed up late working every night--our laptops casting a blue glow on our faces.

But more importantly, Number 4 Panton Street is where we started our family hugs, kisses from Henry, teaching him to say "please". Comforting him as he fell down, chasing him down the hallway to the bathroom where he was so excited to "go get clean". Number 4 Panton Street is where Derek and I struggled to find balance between work, school, and family but where we ultimately succeeded in putting our family first.

If you walked in to our little house, I'm sure you wouldn't understand why I love it so much. The kitchen is awkward, the stairs are steep, the carpet is worn away. The bathroom has traces of mildew and the toilet makes a horrendous noise when you flush it. The paint is awful, the linens mismatched, and the curtains worthy of a bonfire. But it's our home. It's "Henry's House."