Do you remember your childhood home? Maybe you had more than one, but I dare to guess one has stayed with you much longer than the other. Be it the way the kitchen held the family. The way the stairs were loud no matter how softly you walked. Or maybe, an exterior flaw that came from what is now a long forgotten memory for most.
For me, when I think about the house I grew up in, I'm drawn to my Grandparents' home. My Mom, Dad, and I lived in a house before that, but we all moved into Grandma and Grandpa's before I was school aged. Most memories of the prior house are faint and maybe pure imagination, I'm not sure.
Grandma and Grandpa's though, that house has stayed with me my entire life. My husband and I were even blessed to call it our home for many years when we returned after leaving Army life. Even though we built a beautiful life there, with almost a decade of memories. I never stopped referring to it as Grandma and Grandpa's. I somehow still remember it more clearly in the 1990s aesthetics. I remember it from growing up rather than the renovations we did during our time. That makes me both happy and a little sad. I never want to forget either version, but it brings me to my point... there is something about the magic of growing up and the way our brains absorb life during that time. Some may consider it a curse, but I hope if you're reading this you can look back on your childhood with fondness. Even just a small moment of happiness.
As kids, we're so very impressionable. When we're living our lives as children and "growing up", we're not thinking about "okay, I need to lock this into my brain and create a core memory so I can remember exactly what this room looks like, feels like, and how I am having the best day ever." We just live, unchained to the reality of how time is fleeting. And, how one day our innocence and carefree joy will vanish into thin air without us realizing it.
For me, I'm not sure that moment of realization came until the people I love started disappearing. Death has a way of making you relive your life. It makes you dig through a lifetime of memories. Memories you've somehow stopped remembering as you live the day-to-day of adulthood. When we lost my Grandpa, I knew a part of me would never be the same, he was my world. He was my father figure after losing my Dad at the young age of 12. But, even before the loss of my Dad, I was Grandpa's girl... since I was a baby. So I knew losing him would change a part of me, but we had just moved back home and I had the beauty of knowing I was living in our house... Grandma and Grandpa's house. It truly helped me grieve that significant loss. It was especially helpful as we weeded through all the items left behind from a lifetime of living in that home.
Grandma and Grandpa were the original owners. All five of their kids lived there through teenage and young adulthood. Then, somehow each of the grandkids made their way to that house at some point in life. Whether it was just for a few short weeks or years (like my sister and me), everyone had some sort of stay there. So there were many things left behind. Some items had already been cleared, but majority still remained. It was overwhelming but helpful all the same.
I find it funny though. That grief period, the sifting through the belongings. The renovating the nicotine stained walls. Replacing the decade old carpets, and making the home more modern. That is not what I remember when I think of the house I grew up in.
I think of the front room with the fancy glass top end stands and coffee table. The fancy couches and bookshelves full of porcelain dolls. A room that no one really used unless it was a holiday or I needed a place to play that wasn't in the way. As I grew older, I'd slide all the furniture to one side or another and choreograph dances. I'd practice cheer or do the silly things we did as millennials.
I think of the wooden table with bench seating. You'd it see the moment you walk through the front door. Usually, Grandpa sitting in his spot, hot tea on the table, cigarette in hand, and usually petting the family dog. Walking through the door, he'd always greet me with a comedic line of some sort ... oh how I wish I could remember all his one liners now.
I remember the family holidays. The house was just a cloud of smoke because every Aunt and Uncle smoked. Along with Grandpa, they'd be gathered around the kitchen table playing poker. Laughter filled the house through the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes, it went so late some would crash on the couches and leave the next day.
I remember Grandma fixing giant meals, always including mashed potatoes, noodles, and deviled eggs, no matter the holiday... I hated the noodles, but everyone else loved them. She'd always get so flustered. Aggravated if Grandpa or us girls got in the way when she was prepping in the morning. She worked her butt off to get food ready before the family arrived. I never really understood that stress and botherment until I started cooking meals. Feeding my family and being the woman of the house made it all clear. 🤣 Now I look back in astonishment of how she pulled it off for so many years, for so many people, multiple times a year.
The holidays and the house were never the same after the kids started growing up. I was the baby of the family so I saw it dwindle down to the last thread of really just being Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, and me. Then I went off to college. I came back home my second semester and went to college living at home. It was just Grandpa and me in that house majority of the time. Grandma was usually with my sister, Mom was busy working, and I was in and out for class, but so many moments it was just him and me... looking back it was like that for a lot of high school too. Then I fell in love with a soldier and post deployment moved to Georgia to be with him. I'm not sure the house was ever the same again. Grandpa started to get sick and as the years went on it wasn't safe for him to be alone, he moved in with my Aunt. The family gatherings, Grandma's cooking, and childhood holidays had long been gone.
After we had moved back and Grandpa passed, Grandma was living with my sister. We didn't really plan on staying but it just kind of fell in place. I always dreamed of getting the house back in order. Having one more big family gathering like the old days. But, life gets busy, people go their separate ways, and well dynamics change. I never had that moment, we never had gatherings or a large family meal. And, without kids, we never made those types of moments of our own.
Maybe that's why this house stays with me so well. It wasn't at all about the drywall, paint colors, and the brick and siding exterior. It was about the life lived inside those walls. It was about the guests that came and went. The checkers games played. The holidays shared. The front porch Summer nights. The pool parties in the backyard. And, the neighbors who became part of the family.
It's not the physical structures that make it all meaningful. It's the people we shared them with. The moments that shaped us into the adults we've become. It's the memories we created long before we ever realized when needed to hold onto them so tight.
That's why our childhood homes stay with us long after we've grown.
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