Both my kids were at my house today. They helped work on the greenhouse. I've hurt myself a dozen times working on it; it's making me feel old and incompetent.
But enough about that.
They were here, we sat a bit, visited a bit.
It was the first time both kids had been in the house I'm in now---the first time since the flood and the move. I know I was sad to move and both of them talked about their childhood home going away.
It reminded me of my father's home place in Kentucky, which may still be in the family, but none of the family that live there actually knew him or his kids. Twenty-two years after his death,the relatives living there were not even born when he left the state. It wasn't the original house, anyway, his brother and sister-in-law tore down the house he was raised in, a house from the mid-1800's, and built new in the late 1940's.
My grandmothers house is also still owned by family, and we still communicate in a minimal manner as we share the tax on a farm with an oil well left to three siblings. My uncle inherited the home place, but only lived 2 years longer than his mother, so his wife owns it with their boys. No one is living there. I assume someone is taking care of it. The ridiculousness of poor people inheriting a bit of nothing made relations testy, plus politics made that even worse. I would never dream of driving 3 hours to visit the home. It might be too tragic if it has fell into a heap.
The home I was raised in was sold, my sister and I both were too deep into our own homes to try to keep it. I can't drive past it anymore. It was sold to a stranger 21 years ago and recently passed to the buyers daughter. It is not my home. I'm glad it has a family in it.
These homes of our childhoods hold a position in our hearts and memories. After being in a space many hours, the reality of it becomes a home in our memories---I have been painting images from the views from those lost homes---some from photos, some from memories. I'm not sure any of them will ever be done.
But today, I realized something about home. About both the homes I can't return to except in memory and the home I can provide.
As long as we can meet under a roof, we are home. Eventually this old house will feel just like home. My children have built homes for their families, but when we are together, we are back home as before.
As long as I live, we can share that. I hope they realize that they will be doing the same for their children, even if they move. The house is just a house, it takes on the spirit of those that share its walls.
