This ol' house is where I grew up. Well, I spent four years of my life there, from 1972 to 1976. I own it now, having inherited it from my mother, who died six years ago this week. My husband and I rent it out to a couple with children.
My bedroom was in the upstairs loft; you can see the window above the porch. I went from childhood to teenager there; I turned 13 the year my parents built another home in the woods on the hill behind this place.
Across the street is a creek. We dammed it up and swam there, or floated on inner tubes. In winter we had hills for sleighing. A swing used to grace the front porch; a nice breeze blows through there of evening. There used to be a hedge across the front; that's gone. It also used to be white clapboard and not yellow vinyl siding.
Somehow, things like this are a bit perplexing for most of us, A. I mean, suddenly we find ourselves with not only a reminder of a past, but responsibility for it, and it often seems to sit there posing mountain-sized "what if" questions. It strikes me that, under the circumstances, feelng sad is a totally understandable (and perhaps expected?) response.
ReplyDeleteI felt kind of sad all week; my mother and I had a rough relationship and it has been difficult to come to terms with it at times. And the responsibility of the house has been a burden and no joy. It is a constant reminder of the family I never had.
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