It is rare, but true... when I go "home," I really go HOME. Not too many 48 year old people can say that!
This is a photo of the house my father built. I lived here my whole young life. The joke was that my dad built another room every time my mom got pregnant. This house started out much smaller!
My sister and her family now live here, and the house has had a paint job and a bit of a face lift, but it still has the same feel it had when I was a kid. What a gift it is to be able to walk the floors my once tiny bare feet learned to walk on, to look out the windows I dreamed out of in my childhood. I learned to read in that room on the far left, lying belly down on the hardwood floor in front of the fireplace. My sister Deb taught me on a red covered, musty smelling book called The Happy Hollisters. It was about a family with a bunch of kids that solved mysteries, like finding lost kittens and such.
I was blessed with a mostly happy childhood... framed here in this structure of wood and brick. I now call another place 'home,' but it is so good to be able to go back and breathe in the memories of yesterday.
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