Royal Oaks Lane

When I began walking it seemed to be an ordinary day, I sauntered past dilapidated houses and dingy apartment units on my way to the bus stop. The littered parking lots, disheveled strays, and odd assemblage of interesting characters would make the perfect back drop for a scary movie, especially at night. A few nearby neighbors greeted me tentatively with a smile and I greeted them in kind. I was new to the neighborhood and felt ill at ease in this foreign environment. It seemed that for the most part people were afraid to attempt to build any real friendships here. I was one of those people. I attempted to be expressionless and to appear disinterested and unafraid, just another nameless person among a community of nameless people. It’s an idiosyncrasy of my own making to long for community, yet isolate myself. I suppose, for me, it’s fear of being called upon by others.

This particular street may have been nondescript, but it’s name belied it’s true status in American society. The dead end Street was named, Royal Oaks Lane. I’m not sure how or when the name came about, but there was only one lone giant of an oak tree, which cast it’s glorious shadow over my tiny house at the end of the lane every morning. If I were to guess, I’d say it looked as though it was over a hundred years old but I’m no expert on such matters. My thoughts turned back toward the bus stop, which was conveniently situated on the corner. The large oak and bus stop were my primary considerations in choosing to buy in this otherwise indistinct location.

The idea was that I would buy this little house and create two efficiency apartments. Then I would rent out one of them to pay my house payment, so I could live rent-free in the other. Then I would put the money that I would have spent on this house away to eventually make a purchase in a better neighborhood. It seemed like a risk worth taking to secure my future and move up in the world. I made my way to the third row on the right side, taking my usual seat on the bus. I continually reminded myself of my plan. An activity that tormented me, but at the same time helped me press on inspite of all of the roadblocks that had so far prevented this dream from becoming a reality for me.

The one bright spot was that today I would learn if my plans would result in a permit, I already modified them twice in an attempt to please the city. I fought for my oak tree, it was the only feature on the street that represented life beyond the city for me. A tree specialist had to be called in to assess its health and prune back branches. The city would prune only part of the tree and their services were minimal with no real concern for the appearance or character of my oak tree. My pocket took a hit with the additional unexpected expenses.

The day went on as usual with no significant change in my daily routine. Again, I climbed onto the bus but this time I was headed home. I took my usual seat and nearly missed getting off at my own stop. I stepped down and made my way back home with my eyes locked on the lone “Royal” oak that appeared to embrace my little home and beckon me. As I stepped up onto the porch, I had an odd feeling of calm. I felt hopeful and happy. Then I noticed it, a little black book was in my favorite seat near the front door. My interest was piqued.

I picked it up and glanced at the scribbled handwriting within. What’s this? Immediately my imagination kicked in...a book containing a secret treasure map, the writer’s personal account of his or her life, or perhaps the writer’s ideas? As I focused on the contents, I came to the immediate conclusion that it was merely a personal phone book. Which was the purpose of a little black book, right? I laughed at myself, of course that’s what it was. There were names with phone numbers scribbled in it, some were marked through and others underlined. Nothing remarkable or even noteworthy about that at all. I flipped quickly through the pages and a drawing caught my attention. I flipped back through until I found it. It was a scribbled childlike drawing of a key, a tree, and a house. It must be my little house! I looked around, where did the book come from? I walked to the front door and there was a note stuck in the rusted screen door. “We found the black book tucked in a nook of the tree, it was wrapped in some type of leather or skin and seemed as though someone wanted to keep it secure and preserved. —Joe’s Tree Service.” Well, if nothing else it was something that caught my imagination and such an odd place for a book.

I laughed at myself again, why do I always seem to anticipate great things when there’s a tiny blip to interrupt my daily life? I set the little black book on the shelf by the door, pulled off my light jacket, and hung it up in the front room closet, and sat down to remove my shoes. My curiousity compelled me to pick that tattered edged book up again, so I picked it up and carried it to the sofa. I promptly laid down to look through it more carefully. There were interesting comments about some of the people listed, random doodles scribbled throughout, and the occasional blip in “Helen P. Myers” day was recorded here and there.

I was about to put the little black book down, when I saw it. There written in pencil was a drawing of trees flanking a long drive and it was written in neat print, “My dream. Royal Oaks Lane. 1920.” So Helen P. Myers had a dream, a plan to create a lane with towering oaks. Did that dream inspire the streets name? I had questions and another side goal overtook me, “What happened to Helen P. Myers? Were other oak trees ever planted on this lane? Did she play a role in naming the street?” I wanted to know more about her and the street that I lived on. It was in that moment a new unrealized dream was conceived within me, but it was not fully explored by me for many months. Helen P. Myers became a side note to my busy life for several more weeks.

We, my brother and I, began removing an interior wall that was non-weight bearing. The plan was to gut the inside and build new walls to create a simple duplex with a shared laundry room. There were all types of things in the walls, little bits of treasure among the debris. A little metal toy man, which I put in my pocket. A tiny chain with a glass orb that opened, a tiny flower was pressed inside. I found a little box to store items that interested me in. Tattered pieces of mouse eaten newspapers, mouse droppings, the odd piece of cloth, dust, and debris were our primary discoveries. “One wall down and four more to go!” I exclaimed.

We began demolition of the second wall between the current master bedroom and kitchen. He pulled the sledgehammer back about waist high, like a battering ram he busted the slatted wood between the studs. The section broke away and crumbled to pieces. He did it again slightly lower this time. Why did we start lower on the wall first? We wanted to see what was in the wall, of course! We got the flash light and peered in, nothing of value was discovered. We tried a little closer to the entry way with the same results. I laughed, “Well, that’s a bummer!” He was undaunted, “Let’s get these walls down that’s our real goal.” We began our demolition mission in earnest. He tore through the slats at a record pace. I scooped up the slats and debris with a square edged shovel and dropped it in heavy duty black yard work bags following behind him. We were making pretty good progress, when my brother called out to me, “Look!” I hurried over expecting to see something special. My brother grinned and swiped sweat from his forehead, while I stood there looking chagrined. It was the long dead remains of what appeared to have once been a rodent! “You’re a rat,” I muttered under my breath and jabbed at his arm. He darted away from me and laughed. We kept at it for another hour until I found what appeared to be a letter among the debris.

It was an odd little note, the short missive had a scribbled drawing of a tree, a house, and a key. It also said, “It’s not what is at the top of the tree that makes it special. It’s the roots that anchor it.” I looked at Rob, “If that was meant to be a riddle it wasn’t a very clever one.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe she wasn’t good at it. It could be that it was just an observation.” I was unreasonably disappointed in her. “The key is the only unknown,” I muttered. “It must be buried under the tree.” If she planted the tree and literally put it under the roots, then that’s impossible to find without destroying the tree. If she put it under the tree symbolically placing it in the ground where roots would grow, then surely she left a marker or coordinance of some type.” Rob shook his head, “Right now, dinner sounds like a more interesting treasure hunt.” I looked up slowly, “Order something then.”

While we ate pizza I was still preoccupied with what the key meant, was it some childish treasure, a literal key, or a new clue? Were any of the little odd and end items I put in the “keep” box clues? I had more questions than answers. Even while part of my brain said that my musings were a pointless endeavor, I still couldn’t seem to let it go. I looked through the box again and nothing seemed to be of any real importance.

Demolition took preeminence over everything else from that point on, I was obsessed with finding new clues as quickly as possible. On our final day of demolition, we were removing the last remnants of layers of vinyl flooring. As we uncovered the original flooring I noticed a difference where a closet had been added at some point after the house was built. It was the only area that did not have layers of vinyl flooring on top of it. The width of the boards was different and parts of it was cut in shorter lengths, a noticeable difference. “Let’s pull up these boards, do you think we can find some that match the older flooring better?” I asked conversationally. As Rob worked to remove the rogue boards, I walked through to see if there were any other sections of flooring that didn’t match.

When Rob said, “You’re going to want to see this,” I didn’t think much about it. “No, really, come look at this.” I hurried over and looked down in the hole he uncovered. “Oh, Lord have mercy!” I looked at him in horror. “Call the police,” I said as my shock settled in.

The police arrived quickly and they riddled Rob and me with a bevy of questions. When they were satisfied that an arrest would not be warranted. They removed what appeared to be the human bones of a child from under my floor. Thry equested that I report any new unusual findings to them immediately after many hours of looking throughout my home.

My brother tried to talk me into going to his house, but I knew if I left I might possibly never bring myself to stay here anymore. It felt eerie sleeping in my house that night and my dreams were troubled by the haunting laughter of an unnamed gender-less child. This was an unexpected and disturbing turn of events.

I began to reconsider the little black book, pondered if the crossed out names meant something more sinister than I originally suspected. Who was Helen P. Myers? I decided to do a name search online. There was little to go on:

Helen P. Myers

January 18, 1901-December 2, 1917

41 Royal Oaks Lane

So “Royal Oaks Lane” existed here prior to 1917, Helen P. Myers was born to Harold and Helena Myers. Her mother died on January 18, 1914. She died on Helen’s birthday, poor child. I imagined that Helen would forever carry a heavy sadness with her as she began to navigate her teenage years.

There was one area of the house that I had not dealt with during the demolition phase of my home, the attic. The old wooden steps trembled, creaked, and scraped across the hard wood floor under the weight of each step that I took. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and gingerly made my way from the ladder onto the crude wood floor. I squealed in pain as a jagged splinter lodged firmly at an angle into the palm of my hand. I set my jaw and turned to the task. I had a plan of action: (1) Remove everything out of the attic (2) Assess any possible damages or issues (3) Decide how I’d like to use the space. Curiosity got the best of me though. The attic was the last area that needed clearing out and prepared for the renovation stage.

My curiosity overtook me though and before I could stop myself. I had to open a huge trunk to see what it contained! It was locked though, so I rummaged around through other boxes and things trying to find the key. When I moved a smaller trunk from a shelf, I found one. “Wish me luck,” I whispered to myself. They key worked! A musty smell assaulted my nose causing me to sneeze as I opened the lid. I gingerly lifted out tattered baby clothes, several hand sewn well used quilts, doilies, and such. I was about to close the trunk when I realized it had a false bottom. I managed to pry it up and my sharp intake of air at what greeted my eyes resulted in excessive coughing, my eyes were watering, and I felt like I inhaled fuzz or something. I tripped down the steps nearly losing my balance. The ladder creaked and bounced with each tap, tap, tap as it jumped up and down under the weight of each step as I descended.

I tapped Rob’s name on my smart phone phone, “Rob! You’re not going to believe this!” I hollered into my cell as soon as my feet hit the floor.

“Calm down! What’s wrong, Oh Lord, please tell me you didn’t find more bones!” He replied.

“No, No! This is good news! Come to the house and bring Mama and Doug with you. You’ve got to see this!” I hung up and immediately searched online to see if what I had found was really worth anything.

My Mama and both of my brothers arrived within the hour. I brought out a bag and placed it on the table. I pulled out greenbacks, Demand Notes from 1851! There were 6-$5 notes, 10-$10 notes, and a couple of $20 notes. There was also an 1891 $1,000 silver certificate. They stared at the old money in shock. “I’ve got to get them evaluated, but if what I read online is correct...I’m rich!”

The Demand Notes were graded and placed in a protectective sleeve by a paper money grading company. We had the 1891 $1,000 silver certificate auctioned off. I got 2.8 million dollars for it! I placed the rest in a bank vault to preserve them until needed. My brother and I completed the renovations on the small house on Royal Oaks Lane in about 6 months.

The story of Helen P. Myers and the bones of the tiny Jane Doe found under the floor boards has become my primary focus now. I found some things in the attic that revealed so many details about Helen’s life, struggles, and the mystery of the baby’s bones that I’ve actually decided I may write a fictional story based on her life, which began and ended here in the “Royal Oaks House.”

There was another child’s bones found in the yard under the old oak tree. My brother, Doug, found him when he was helping prepare a flower memorial for those who had lived here before me. This one was said to be about 3 years old. Was he the key that made the “roots” of the oak tree special? Or was it the secret stash of Demand Notes hidden away under lock and key in the attic? Perhaps the real key was Helen. Her roots are inexplicably tied to the two unknown babies, though I’m not quite sure in what way? Perhaps the little black book is a treasure trove of information, surely it’s the key to filling in the missing pieces of Helen’s story. No matter where this journey takes me I feel that my wealth is inexplicably tied to her, even if it’s only loosely bound. I know that this house and property is.

I completed renovating my little Royal Oak house with the help of my brothers and officially moved in. I placed three burial plaques in the middle of bright colorful flowers under the old oak tree, reminders of three people who once were a part of Royal Oak Lane. I convinced most of my neighbors to plant oak trees in each yard to flank both sides of the street. Helen’s dream was reborn in me. I bought the apartment complex and updated the property, then transformed it into corporate apartments for professionals. It made me feel happy to be a part of positive change in my new community.

I feel that Helen P. Myers dream became mine, it was reborn through me, great things happened on Royal Oaks Lane. Helen and the royal old oak inspired it all. The gift in the attic gave me the wealth to transform not only my life, but the lives of my neighbors.

As I walked down the lane, neighbors greeted me happily. Children were laughing and playing in some of the yards. Well groomed cat’s lounged about in a parking lot or two. The street was pristine and though some parking lots were worse for wear, the neighborhood was clean.

The neighbors and I have a “Keep the Hood” clean party once a month, we eat snacks together, clean up any trash or debris that may be thrown out by others down the lane, and we have fun. Royal Oaks Lane actually has multiple oak trees growing on each side of the street. It’s a place to live and be proud of. It’s home.