I don't usually get sentimental over houses. I guess it's the way I grew up. My family lived in seven houses (in six states)
from when I was born until I went away to college. My parents never owned any of them---they
were parsonages or rental homes. Since
getting married I've lived in seven separate places (from mobile home to
apartments to houses) in four states. In
my childhood years, a house was a place
to live until you moved to a different place.
But there has been a house that has been a constant in my
life since my first visit to Southern Ontario, Canada to meet my future husband
Bryan's family. Bryan didn't grow up in the house; his family
didn't move to 'the farm' until he was 16.
But their home became my home ever since I first met the Klazingas, and
it has a place in my memory and my heart because it is has been 'home' for 24
years--the longest relationship I've ever had with a 'house'.
When we heard this week that my in-laws sold 'the farm', the
USA Klazingas were all a bit sad and nostalgic.
This home is Grandma and Pake's house to my kids. It is 'our trip to Canada', our memories of
Christmas, of swimming , of singing 'Oshimoki (Don't Go near the Eskimos)
around a campfire, of meeting cousins and watching them grow up, of the rooster
in front of wedding couple portraits, of fires in the fireplace, mice running
overhead in the basement, conserving water so the cistern doesn't run dry when
there are so many people in the house, lots and lots of plants and flowers,
grilling burgers, watching fish swim in the little pond, seeing fireworks,
stars, even the Northern Lights, hearing trains go by, watching snow storms and
rain storms from the sunroom windows, hearing the wind blow across the fields.
I remember long drives 'home', the last 10 or 15 minutes of
driving down long country roads, anticipating the outside lamps on, and Mom and
Dad waiting for us to arrive. That
feeling of going home is strong; it becomes associated with the house as well
as the family you visit. We were
welcomed in every time we visited and there was always room for everyone. There were old toys to play with, old books
to read, lots of food, big breakfasts, celebrations, visits of cousins and
aunts and uncles, coming home for family reunions, funerals and illnesses. We watched the house undergo lots of changes
over the years--remodeled kitchen, bathrooms, new deck, air conditioning, water features. But it was always a place of peace and quiet,
filled with love and family.
I know that house isn't my in-laws' first house, nor will it be their last,
but it does have a special place in mine and my family's heart. We will miss seeing 'the farm' when we visit
Grandma and Pake again. It's just a
house, but it was also home. For as long
as I can remember, when moving away from a place, I walk through the rooms of
the house I am leaving, as a way to say goodbye and remember the time spent in
the house. I don't know if I'll get a
chance to do that before my in-laws move, but I know the memories of 'growing
up' there will not be forgotten.
