My childhood home
My grandfather
passed away over 5 years ago and my Grammie joined him in heaven last week. (The
two of them were legacy leavers and their stories are for another series of
posts.) The past seven days have been exhausting, emotional and incredible. We
gathered to cry and to laugh, to mourn and to celebrate. We gathered at their
home.
As I drove there today to gather a few items
to take back to Virginia with me, I broke down in a rather unexpected way. I
cried tears from the depths of my soul as the reality struck me that the house
that built me would soon be sold to someone else. Any old dream I had of growing
old at that address and having my own grandchildren visit there one day were washed
away. I felt paralyzed. I didn’t want to go inside. Then the memories started
flooding my mind.
My
grandmother and I spent hours playing Rummikub in the same seats at the kitchen
table where we ate countless meals. Pa
would eat grapefruit for breakfast, I would typically have cereal or an English
muffin. Lunch would be Spaghettio’s or a grilled cheese sandwich that Grammie
would call “toasted cheese”. Dinners were always well-balanced, and portion
controlled. I ate swordfish for the first time, realized I do not like sauerkraut,
and ate my weight in Nabisco cookies at that table. The refrigerator always had
a piece of artwork made for Grammie by one of her five granddaughters and likely
the most recent school pictures, too. On the shelf of the passthrough window
from the kitchen to the family room sat a few cooking essentials, like a spoon
rest, and several other tchotchkes including a popsicle stick boat thing I made
in preschool.
The large family room in the back of the
house was where we gathered most. In her spare time, Grammie would typically be
found knitting in the family room. She knit sweaters for friends or family and made
complete wardrobes for Barbies, Cabbage Patch Kids and American Girl Dolls. Next
to her chair was a cubby cabinet that housed crayons, coloring books and other
evidence that her grandchildren frequently visited. Each child that entered
that room was introduced to the cubby and the items inside opened imaginations.
Pa read his paper while sitting in his recliner. It was in this room that we
got our sternest lectures and received our highest praises. This was where we
were told stories of what life was like “in the olden days” and where we heard
about the incredible couple we were blessed to be descendants of. Whether it
was watching Jeopardy or listening to the fire scanner tell of the latest local
emergency, that family room was our gathering place.
When I stayed there, my room was at the
end of the hall on the left. I shared it with my sister, Jessica, just like my
mom shared it with her sister years before. At night, the passing cars would throw
shadows on the walls and we would imagine who might have been driving by and
where they may have been. If we got to giggling too much we would hear Pa call
from his room across the hall for us to “settle down”. If we didn’t he might just
“kick a cat hole” through us.
When the weather was nice, I would often
take to the outdoors and play in my grandparent’s yard. As a child, it seemed
like their side yard was the size of a football field and the hill behind their
house a mountain. I loved to pull on the branches of the gigantic weeping
willow and play tag in its shade. Three boulders were put alongside the road,
likely to stop cars taking the corner too fast, but to me, the rocks were used
as winners’ podiums for our races or whatever friendly competition we were having
with the other neighborhood kids. We had our own Olympics in that yard many
times. And those rocks served as seats while we waited for the school bus.
In elementary school, my grandparents had a dog, named
Dutchess. Since I was there so much, I consider her my first pet. Dutchess
greeted me at the bus stop after school like a faithful companion. And it was when
we lost her that I first knew of true grief.
For my high school years, I lived on a
farm with my father and didn’t go to Grammie and Pa’s before or after school
any more, but it was still the gathering place for family holidays and our any
days. My mother had moved to a place I had never resided in and more than ever,
the house at the bottom of Nellie Hill was what I knew to be my childhood home.
After joining the Navy, that house was the first memory that came to mind when
asked about where I grew up. For a long time, I believed I would one day retire,
return to our sleepy town and again reside at the house on the corner with the weeping
willow and three stone boulders. Now I know that isn’t my future.
So, today, I took a few pictures. I wanted
to capture the views that were so vivid in my head so that others can see the home
that I have always so dearly loved. As I took the photos, I was reminded that the
reason this house was my childhood home is not because of the walls, the
decorations, or the view. It holds such a precious place in my heart because of
the collection of memories, of feelings. It holds the of love of generations
and is where a legacy began. A legacy that began with Grammie and Pa. As I took
pictures, I wept some more. For a brief moment, I thought I may never feel ok
again.
Then, I paused. I decided to do the only
thing that would make it ok. I prayed. I prayed for the future owners. I prayed
that whomever finds themselves in the house of my childhood will make their own
memories and live lives of beautiful significance. I prayed that as they look
out the front picture window across to the wetlands they can see majesty and grace
I witnessed a thousand times before. I prayed that the history of those who
wandered inside those walls before are never forgotten but also that a new and
unique history will be made there. And most of all, I prayed that the legacy
begun in that home will be passed on to my future generations. That I live a
life deserving the legacy entrusted to me.
**Legacy stories from my childhood home to
be told in the future --- remind me to tell you about my Grammie and Pa more.
You deserve to know – or rather, their stories deserve to be heard.
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