My family moved into our first home when I was 14 years old. We all were excited to live in a big house on a large lot. My sisters and I had dreamed of a house that resembled the ones on "Leave it to Beaver," or "Father Knows Best." My dreams included my wedding day when I would come down the winding staircase on my father's arm. The real house was not what I had in mind.
Oh, we had a staircase, but it was a narrow, functional way to travel from the kitchen to the bedrooms upstairs. No grand entrance would take place there. Another of our dreams was to have our own rooms. Instead, we shared bedrooms. My two sisters and I shared a room and my two brothers shared another. Dream number two was not to be.
This house was not what we had pictured, it was not perfect; but it was the greatest place on earth. We lived a sheltered, close-knit life in that house. Memories pour through my mind as I sit here writing this evening.
Shortly after we moved in, while my mother and father were shopping, I was left in charge of my brothers and sisters. We heard a strange, thumping noise coming from the basement. Convinced that some evil person had broken in and was ready to murder us all, my sisters and I grabbed the first thing we could find to protect our home. In this case, the weapons of choice were the metal extensions to the vacuum cleaner hose. We proceeded to shout about how we were going to the basement, with weapons in hand, and anyone down there had better get out.
Just like in the movies, we went toward the noise. Eerie music should have been playing as we made our way to the door, wondering what we would do if someone was there. We opened the basement door and began creeping down the stairs, to the unfinished area where shadows moved. The monster furnace loomed in the semi-darkness. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we realized that our intruder was just a pair of tennis shoes that my mother had put into the clothes dryer. Feeling foolish, but definitely wiser, we returned upstairs where we could stop trembling.
In that house, we learned to dance with my dad, we played in the yard with our friends, and cooked out when the weather was warm. It was in that house we got "the talk" from our mom. It was in that house that we would giggle into the late night, knowing that my parents' threat of, "If we hear just one more peep...," would never come to pass.
It was to that house that I brought my future husband after our first date, to meet my parents. We had been skiing (he skied, I watched) and the roads were treacherous and icy. I had neglected to call my family to let them know we would be late, and my father was quite worried for my safety. As I introduced the two men in my life, my father let us know in no uncertain terms that he was not happy with the fact he hadn't heard from us. I was convinced that one of those men would no longer be part of my life.
It was in the living room of that house that my husband and I spent many evenings snuggled on the couch. And it was there that he proposed to me. I told him that he would need to ask my father for my hand (yep, another dream of mine). We waited nervously for dad to return from the night shift he worked. When he came home, my husband told my father about his desire to marry me. My father's response was quite touching. He said, "Well, it's about time!"
My grand entrance on that staircase went in reverse, as I climbed the stairs to tell my mother I was to be married. I had pictured a "Hallmark" moment when I would tell my mom my plans, she would draw me into her arms with tears in her eyes and speak of her little girl getting married. Instead, when I woke her up to tell her my news, she groggily said, "That's nice," turned over and went back to sleep. Poof - there goes another dream.
The memories of that house flood my heart. I will never forget leaving the house on my wedding day, dressed in a gown, exactly like the one I had dreamed of, and returning to it a married woman. I will never forget saying good-bye to my family as my new husband and I left to travel the 400 miles to our new life together. I will never forget returning home with my babies to introduce them to their grandparents, aunts and uncles. I will never forget receiving the news that my mother had passed away quietly in her sleep, in the very bed I went to when I shared my special news.
I will never forget encouraging my father to sell the house when it became much too difficult for him to maintain, even with the help of my brothers and sister, who still remain in the area. I will never forget returning to visit and going back to where the house had been to find a hole where it had once stood. In its place was a huge building that held no memories at all. I felt like a stranger in the neighborhood I once knew so well.
My dad is living in a smaller, newer house now. He has a small yard. My sister lives with him. We have returned to visit, and the house feels different. But our home is still there. I have discovered that family is what makes a house a home. A building can be demolished, but the memories that linger in our hearts and minds keep the home fires burning deeply. When we return to visit we are truly home.
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