Holding on to history

Conversation is the garden of thought and ideas. I often get my ideas for these postings as a result of talking with people. The idea I get may or may not have anything to do with the topic being discussed. Seems odd I know, but that is the way my brain works. A little bit off center at times. My thoughts can wander from the present subject to a more abstract thought. I've heard it said that I just love to talk, or more properly, hear myself talk, and I guess there is some truth to that. If that were my only failing I would be pleased. Well, I accept that truth and will try to curb it just a bit.

I was chatting with a friend when this occurred to me. In all my collection of photographs, I do not have a picture of my childhood home. It does make an appearance in the background of some snapshots but none feature that home. It struck me what a shame that is. I helped in the transformation of that house from a two bedroom rancher, to a two story, three bedroom, two and a half bath home. I helped in building the fireplace, digging the basement and construction of the back yard barbecue and patio. I had about fifteen Christmases there, along with birthdays and other celebrations. A good portion of the history of me was made there. And I don't have a picture.

I did go visit that home some years back. The current owner was kind enough to allow me to walk through one more time. I was struck by just how small that house really was. The decor looked almost as I remembered it. The kitchen cabinets had been painted a different color and the carpet was changed, but the wallpaper remained. The house seemed sad and somewhat forlorn, like it was lacking in life. Perhaps it was the old memories I had left there. The knotty pine, so fashionable at the time, had grown darker with age and the ceramic tiles on the kitchen counter dull. A few tiles were missing and resembled a toothless grin. I left glad for the visit, but with a sense of sadness.

I have determined to write a full description of this home. It may prove of interest to succeeding generations. I will root out whatever glimpses I may have captured in those photos. I am no artist but will attempt a sketch of the house and draw a floor plan. The last I knew that home stood basically unchanged on a little rise of land. The back yard had undergone major changes. The stone barbecue pit, walls and goldfish pond had returned to the earth. No traces remained that I could see. It would be an interesting place to excavate. Like an archaeological dig, I am certain of finding treasure.

I can only imagine what it must be like to live in an ancestral home. A place that has felt the footsteps of your ancestors. I expect in the dark corners and little hidden areas, discovery awaits. In times of quiet homes will speak to you, if you but listen. My home has a sorted tale to tell and I know but a small part. It is my duty to record that much.