While I was away at graduate school in 1964, my parents decided to move; they had found a house on Mustin Lane in Villanova, which would be their "retirement home." I saw it for the first time that Christmas. Ranch design. On an exposed corner property, but with a larger private backyard. They had bought some new furniture and redecorated. The inside had been repainted, new carpeting put in. Since I had been away during the actual move, I had had no say in the packing of my own room at St. Davids, or the unpacking in what would be my room here.
They lived together in Villanova until my father's death in fall, 1976, and my mother continued in the house alone thereafter until her death in the fall of 1985.
My mother often wondered over the fact that she would live in this house more years than in any of the five or six she had managed in her life. It was not the house of her dreams so much as of Dad's. Her dream had been for a small farm, a place with land. But the Villanova house--"the dump," as Dad proudly called it--was full of conveniences, safe, roomy, and easy to maintain. Also Dad liked the location in amongst extant mansions and estates and close to the Gulph Mills entrance to the Expressway, which shortened his commute to our candy factory. One mansion, across the street, was set back on land larger than a park or golf course and was reputed to have full-sized bowling allies in the basement. George Brown, the VP of Penn Bank with whom Dad played golf on Saturdays lived down the street.
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Dad wrote to me in Iowa, "We are well settled now, and enjoying the new home. Quite different from previous experiences. Much simpler without sacrificing comforts and activities. Certainly less work and worry for Mother. Curtains are all fixed, pictures hung and rehung, books in place and replaced, etc. Looks as if Mother is out of business and will just have to settle for her hospital work and relax in between." (She had recently gotten work as a volunteer para-therapist, helping with patients at the Philadelphia Institute.)
Giving up St. Davids was a grief for Mom. Unlike Bloomingdale, which had been a hand-me-down from the Henrys, St. Davids had been her own house; it had also been a full, bustling house, until child by child we had outgrown and deserted it, and her; but even so, it still held memories. She loved the yard and gardens. Dad joked, self-disparaging, that by habit he still drove home to St. Davids after work.
