Even though the doormat said LEAVE in bold, adamant letters, he opened his home to me. I stayed there and took care of things while he was away. Away was in assisted living, recovering after a hospital stay. Away was just for a while, as he and his family anxiously settled into a finale not yet written and as I opened a very unsettling chapter in my own life. Surrounded by his possessions, I grew to know and appreciate the man he was, his story, his love affair with living. His extensive collection of literature and music, shelved and catalogued, invited perusing while demanding their return; strange artifacts and relics with tales of worldly exploits and eclectic curiosities; a well-equipped kitchen seasoned in French cuisine and a chef’s enterprise; the wall of service depicting his time in Vietnam when Navy buddies dubbed him The Senator—not because he was one, but because he could be.

While Hal knew I was staying in his home, I wasn’t sure how he felt about it, nor how I felt about it, living in his house, hiding in his story while my own life was in flux. Tucked away in the woods off Rutherford Road, his la maison had been my safe house, a place to recollect and find myself. When he never returned, I bought it from his family. While there’s a sadness in moving on, the artist in me finds it restorative, regenerative, evolutionary. Spaces filled, emptied and refilled making one beautiful moving picture, one unending story. Little by little, Hal’s house became my home. But thankfully, his larger-than-life presence and voice still loom. The plaque on the front porch declares this is the House that Griffins built, an admonishment of my intrusion into a story of which I had no part, and the welcome mat still smirks go away every time I walk through the door.