What Makes a Home Pt. 2
My childhood home, the one my parents owned for the last forty years, no longer belongs to my family. My sisters and I said our final goodbyes to what's been our permanent address for the entirety of our lives.
The house was on a gravel road, with an almost entirely gravel driveway. Countless people commented on the driveway that seemed to last forever when tasked with backing out of it (although, if you just lined up between the garage doors, getting out was a breeze.). The small slab of concrete before the garage doors spent the majority of the 90s and early 2000s covered with chalk, bikes, scooters, roller blades, and kids.
My dad had an ongoing battle with the outside lights on the house. He tried everything to make them motion sensored or on a timer. For years, the only consistently functioning light was one controlled with a switch. If any light worked, it was good that it was this one, as it was the front step light. My dad was so good about making sure he left the light on for us until everyone was home. It was important to him that we all were welcomed home, and the light served as an extra safety precaution, a top priority of a dad of daughters.
Inside the house, there was always an abundance of natural light. With big windows (that my mother painstakingly cleaned inside and out, especially if company was coming and regardless of impending rainstorms), as a child, I always whined about the glare the windows caused on the TV or how the early sunlight rudely awoke us during living room slumber parties. But as an adult, I woke up early to enjoy that early morning light pouring in.
And in the evening, the house was always full of light, too. The light of the TV, which was always on more than it should be and wasn't added to the living room until well into our childhood. We grew up with a kitchen TV as the kids' TV, which was genius in hindsight. Solid access to snacks, and comfortable, but not too comfortable chairs that encouraged us to 1) get creative with how we sat or 2) move on to playing or doing something presumably more productive, active, or imaginative.
The other abundant light in the evening was from the kitchen. My mom was an absolutely phenomenal cook and baker. She loved experimenting in the kitchen and serving others. She was all about the presentation and unafraid of appearing "over the top." I don't know how she did it, but she'd come home from long, strenuous work days, and get straight to preparing elaborate meals for us. We would crowd around the kitchen, at the bar, the island, and in those comfortable-but-not-too-comfortable kitchen table chairs in order to spend time with her. My sisters would help by chopping vegetables or completing other tasks unbeknownst to me. Cooking wasn't really my thing until after she was gone, but I loved talking to her while she worked. We had dinner together as a family in that kitchen every single night. Sometimes we prayed for people in need, other times my mom encouraged [forced] us to share roses and thorns of our days. My dad told jokes and the rest of us told stories. We did the dishes together and had dance parties while we did.
In the past decade or so, we stopped spending much time downstairs, but as kids, that was where we had our bedtime snacks, watched golf with Mom and Dad on Sundays, drank "bug juice" (my dad's concoction of orange pop and root beer), played with Barbies, Bratz, Strawberry Shortcake, and dolls, and built with foam blocks in the very early years. The basement was home to the foosball table, the surplus of ice cream treats, the bulk of our family time, and our childhood cat, Fritz who was loathed by many and feared by most. I was always embarrassed by the wood-paneled walls and funky carpet, but it provided the perfect space to play, connect, and grow, and it was so cozy and comforting. The aesthetics aren't everything, after all. Sometimes those imperfect spaces help us to be comfortable as our true, imperfect selves.
Overlooking the Sheyenne River, our house had a spectacular view. When we were in high school, we finally added/updated the decks and patio of the house. One deck was south-facing, just off the living room. It was perfect for mornings. The back deck and patio were delightful in the evenings, where you could watch the sun set against the backdrop of the river. My mom was a bit of a pyromaniac and loved having bonfires. She was also, as mentioned earlier, unafraid of being over-the-top. While some have smores and beer at bonfires, she was all about having homemade truffles (truly divine, if I say so myself) and wine at her bonfires.
Our house was so playful. I can't imagine everyone has memories practicing dance routines in the bathroom, racing through the hallways with scarves, running and flipping onto the couches, or climbing the walls of their home. Our definitions of play transitioned as we grew, from imagining bizarre games and doing strange dances to making each other laugh with jokes and stories, but joy and love were at the heart of everything.
And there were also plenty of less-than-joyful moments. There isn't a corner in this house that I didn't stand in, "reflecting" on my poor choices and secretly (or not-so-secretly??) using sign language to joke around with the sister who is also facing a corner for having just fought with me. I was in the kitchen of this house, making sugar cookies with my mom, when she told me she had cancer. We watched Cruella as a family in the living room just hours before my dad passed away. See? Everything, joyful and sorrowful and mundane and exciting, coexists.
Once again, I'm reminded of the "both and," or whatever they say. We can feel sorrow and joy in closing the chapter on our childhood home. The finality of no longer having a physical space that belongs to the five of us, Mom, Dad, Paige, Hope, and me. The gratitude of having a solid, beautiful home for growing up, playing, learning together. This house is just a house. The people are what matter most, but none of those glimmering memories would have been possible without the home this house provided for us. It was a safe space after a fight, a breakup, or a terrible loss. It was the place we would grow from itty bitty babies to grown ups, and boy, what a special journey it's been.
Looking forward, I'm excited to create a new home. There are so many fun memories to be made in our new houses and new people to fill the houses with. So what makes a home? I suppose, structurally, there's wood and concrete, bricks and windows, leading to walls and a roof (preferably steel - have you heard a downpour with a steel roof?? ♡) and doors. There's a kitchen, some living space, bedrooms and bathrooms. But what really makes a home home is the memories, the safe space and familiarity, time, and the people. I'm endlessly grateful for the foundation (haha, get it?) this house has given me and my family.
-J
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