Home Is Where the Heart Is

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.