And the walls have grown sturdy and the halls have worn well
But there is nobody living inside, nobody living inside…
These days, whenever I think of my parents’ house, my childhood home, these lyrics from Dan Fogelberg play in my mind. The house is almost completely empty after a yard sale — and a summer of cleaning and purging. (Enormous thanks to my cousin, Stephanie, and Aunt Pauline who did most of the heavy lifting and whose kindness can never be repaid.)
I have walked around the empty house many times and each room holds special memories.
I picture my mother always in the kitchen, with aromas of fresh baked goods, homemade chicken noodle soup and pierogies. There was always a pie or some other sweet on the counter. I remember Mom and me laughing as I struggled to learn how to roll out cookie dough! I picture my dad in the chair in the corner of the kitchen kicking off his work boots by the back door. We all learned to cook and bake in this kitchen and, like most homes, it was the hub of activity.
In the back of the house we had a room affectionately known as “the toy room”. In our childhood, there were old school desks and chalk boards, rocking horses and toy pianos, and boxes upon boxes of toy soldiers, Matchbox cars, and comic books. The floor was covered with Fisher Price “little people” and accessories. Who didn’t have the barn and airport? And we were even allowed to draw roads – with crayon – on the worn out carpet! The grandchildren also grew up in this room and played with many of the toys my brothers and I left behind. The grandkids were much more into dressing up (in Mom’s outdoor decorative flags, of all things) and play-acting — the house was full of tigers and warriors and wizards.
The dining room was the focal point for homework, board games, and family gatherings. Many a late night game of Monopoly or Aggravation was played at the table, and it’s where we all learned to play Pinochle. Holiday dinners were Mom’s specialty. We would add extra tables to extend into the living room so there was space for everyone to sit togehter and there were the special table cloths just for such events. While stained from years of use, I actually kept one of the lace tablecloths since it held such great memories.
Very specific — and yet random — memories come up in various places in the house. I remember the Hot Wheels track looping from the dining room table to the living room. Playing jacks on the hardwood floor. The hole in the bedroom wall from rough-housing. Sitting on the landing of the stairs waiting for the Christmas tree to be plugged in on Christmas morning. The cedar-y smell of the closets and the pull string lights in the bedrooms. Rows of jars of garden fresh canned goods in the dark basement. The hissing and warmth of the steam radiators.
The house has undergone some transformations over the years and I think about what it looked like “way back when”. When we had a bath tub and no shower. When the heavy door with the weird doorknob and key adorned the front of the house. When the old kitchen cupboards were painted yellow. When we had a coal furnace, a wood stove in the kitchen, and no railing on the front porch (which led to multiple broken windows from kick balls and baseballs with nothing to stop them).
There are so many joyful memories, and many experiences that shaped who we all are today. I could write a book.
The house has not really been “home” since my mother died and now it’s time to let someone else make happy memories there. Sale of the house is set to close in the next week or so (prayers for successful closing!). I’ve met the prospective buyer and I was excited to hear that someone else’s grandchild will grow up here. I think my parents would be happy with that. I know it makes it easier for me to let go.
IMDb: Empty Rooms (2012)