47.0°,
Mostly Cloudy These walls have ears, eyes and memories
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I’m not selling my house, but I realized recently, with some shock, that a new buyer would probably tear it down. After all, the bathrooms and kitchen aren’t super modern, the oak floors have been walked on for 75 years, the porch has no electric lights and we have no grand open living space. Why wouldn’t someone trash it and build a bigger house on the same land? I have no idea how many square feet we have; it was never important when we bought, and it never acquired greater importance as time went by. Still, I’m sure it won’t be big enough for people who demand mini-mansions.
Of course, it’s more than the physical tearing down of walls and floors that distresses me. I’m not one to paint “things” with a sentimental glaze, but a house, like mine, that has been a home, is much more than walls and floors. I don’t think it will make a difference to a prospective buyer/house wrecker, but these walls have memories.
Babies called to us from the upstairs bedrooms. I can see, in my mind’s eye, the family gathered at our dining table as we grew from just us two to four, and then to two dozen at our Thanksgiving dinners. My kitchen has put out more food in 42 years than a midsized B&B.
And the bedrooms, the peace and quiet of the bedrooms that face our very private backyard, have given us a haven from the world. We have retreated to our bedrooms for sleep and intimacy, rest from work and recovery from illness.
This home has been our refuge in sad times. We sat shiva here, and healed ourselves from loss and disappointment. We have danced at parties, from the kids’ birthday bashes to my mother’s 60th to engagement parties for our grown children. These days, when they come back with their own kids, fresh laughter bounces off the old walls.
This house is still home base for us and for our children who live far away. When she visited recently, my daughter said she loved that the house is an archive of our lives. She opened an old desk and found a printed announcement of my own engagement 47 years ago. Astounded and delighted, she realized that here, under this roof, is the communal history of our family.
Of course, it’s more than the physical tearing down of walls and floors that distresses me. I’m not one to paint “things” with a sentimental glaze, but a house, like mine, that has been a home, is much more than walls and floors. I don’t think it will make a difference to a prospective buyer/house wrecker, but these walls have memories.
Babies called to us from the upstairs bedrooms. I can see, in my mind’s eye, the family gathered at our dining table as we grew from just us two to four, and then to two dozen at our Thanksgiving dinners. My kitchen has put out more food in 42 years than a midsized B&B.
And the bedrooms, the peace and quiet of the bedrooms that face our very private backyard, have given us a haven from the world. We have retreated to our bedrooms for sleep and intimacy, rest from work and recovery from illness.
This home has been our refuge in sad times. We sat shiva here, and healed ourselves from loss and disappointment. We have danced at parties, from the kids’ birthday bashes to my mother’s 60th to engagement parties for our grown children. These days, when they come back with their own kids, fresh laughter bounces off the old walls.
This house is still home base for us and for our children who live far away. When she visited recently, my daughter said she loved that the house is an archive of our lives. She opened an old desk and found a printed announcement of my own engagement 47 years ago. Astounded and delighted, she realized that here, under this roof, is the communal history of our family.
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