As readers of this blog may know, my mother passed away in December 2014. As estate executor, my brother handled the sale of the house, per our late mother's wishes.
Home is where one starts from.
This house was a family home in the truest sense. It had belonged not only to my parents, but previously to my paternal grandparents. My father grew up in the house with his parents and siblings. At one time, it was a boarding house. My mother lived there briefly as a young child with her father and sister after her mother died. When her father remarried, they moved to their own home.
There were a lot of changes to the family home in the years between my grandparents and parents ownership. I learned that at one time, my grandparents operated a small store on the property. My parents also had a large vegetable garden and at one time raised chickens. Sadly, there are no photos of the property taken many years ago. (The photo above was taken over 10 years ago.)
You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it’s all right.
My earliest days were spent on the lawn with my Aunts Ann and Sophie and "older" cousin, Mary Ann.
My brother took out his first steps in the backyard; remembered in photos with his proud parents.
My late mother's wishes were very specific; her will dictated that we "sell the house as quickly as possible" upon her passing. Last year, we spent several weeks emptying its contents.
My parents, like others who grew up in the depression era, did not easily part with things in their lifetime. My brother and I learned much more about our parents lives by going through this process. It was often bittersweet and sometimes provoked laughter at a shared memory.
Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
The home where my family shared their lives is now "home" to another family, but the memories of time spent there will always remain with us.
Dorothy (aka Beatrice)