The House That Was Home
This house is nothing special. Built in the 1960’s, it doesn’t have a lot of character. It’s a 4 bedroom rambler with gray stucco exterior and dark framed windows. The driveway is curved and a hassle to back-out of.
On the back porch on Saturday summer evenings Mom roasted corn on the cob and T bone steak. As smoke billowed from the grill, aroma filled the air, sailing over the tall wooden fence to the neighbor’s backyard. Mom, in her 1970’s tan Keds, and olive and white plaid top and knee-length shorts, grilled away.
Our family of five sat at the wooden park table, looking out at our suburban apple and plum orchard, sharing stories about Grandpa bringing us six pet chickens, my brother sneaking into the neighbor’s pool, and Dad growing-up poor. That was our summer Saturday nights.
That was many years ago. We moved into the house in 1969 when I was a month old. I am 38 years old now. With Dad passing in 2006 and Mom passing in 2004, I went back to the house for one last time.
I walked through the house, remembering so many childhood times. I looked through old pictures and packed away memories. I boxed-up our special China. I boxed up house wares for Goodwill. I boxed up trash. Over a few days, I boxed-up what was once a home.
We sold the house. What was once our childhood home became a house again.
Agree!This page is high-quality and so is how the subject was written about. I am sincerely admiring your capability to respond in a short time with such constructive advices. It is really a happy time to go through your daily update. Thanks again.