(originally published on an old blog several years ago)

The house is gone … just found out this week that it has been torn down.  The house hasn’t been in the family for four decades, but occasional trips back to the old hill indicated a sadly serious case of neglect by subsequent owners.  So, the news was not exactly unexpected, but still a shock when you first hear the words.  There’s a quietly regrettable sadness that I can never go back and a low-key emptiness, a hole so to speak, in the first two decades of my life history.  The timing of this news, coupled with yet another birthday reminding me that more than half my life is behind me, makes me wax all the more nostalgic.

The small house, which at times seemed so much larger to a small child, would never make the local community house tour listing or the cover shot of a major interior decorating magazine.  The trademark 1950’s style floral wallpaper with coordinating window coverings were most likely bought at the local five and dime or community hardware store.  Humble furnishings were added as a limited budget permitted — cash, as available, not credit cards, governed what and when this immigrant family purchased.  Family portraits, nick knacks and signs of faith provided the accessories that broadcast the character of the occupants.

But, now, the house is gone.  Gone are the few, small kitchen steps that, somehow, beyond belief, held a number of generations of kids, eating, playing and happily singing while observing the innumerable festive celebrations from the most advantageous viewing spot.  It was like having seats right on the field during a baseball game — you were part of the action.  The house didn’t have a “family” room, “game” room or parlor for entertaining.  The kitchen served as all three, with spillover crowds meandering to the little “living” room at the top of the steps.

Those same steps provided the prime spot for a very talkative little girl who tried so hard to patiently and “quietly” sit for endless hours during traditional nut bread baking days.  The Croatian tradition was a day long event — Grandma, mom and aunts busily, methodically mixing, kneading, baking, cooling and packing in a harmonious system that large-scale factories would envy.  A very clever Grandma promised to reward the little girl for her patience and good behavior with her very own mini loaf of bread. 

Gone is the porch which served as the outdoor entertainment center of the house during the warmer days of spring, summer and fall.  The long, narrow, covered extension of the house somehow managed to accommodate a crowd which would certainly violate modern-day occupancy limits for such a structure. It was filled with gliders, chairs and a swing that nearly gave a Grandmother a heart attack when kids swung out too high and over the railing overlooking a drop off that tickled the pit of your stomach and made you delightfully dizzy.

Gone is the house, as well as too many of the people who gathered there and shared decades of laughter and tears and the love and security of being surrounded by loved ones.  Gone is the house, but not the memories that are filed in the mind or the tons of pictures taken in the crowded kitchen, the porch or in front of the garbage can that help to preserve those memories.  

Grandma’s house is gone, but not the essence of a love that continues to nourish generations who never set foot in the house or knew the original occupants.

Peace,
Kathy Marie