A House is not a HOME

The water pressure is not real strong. The water in the kitchen is REAL hot but if somebody is trying to take a shower in the “other bathroom” while you’re showering, you get low water pressure and limited hot water.  The furniture in the living room is older than most of my nieces and nephews and sleeping on the couch isn’t half as comfortable as it use to be. The den that was the place where we gathered to watch all our favorite TV shows after school sees little to no activity.  The days of having one TV for nine people to watch have long been put to bed.  Now there's a  TV and DVD player in almost all the rooms.  The bedroom my brother and I shared as children has been turned into a pantry; one of my sister’s bedrooms has been turned into an office and the four bedroom house has now become a two bedroom house with an office and a large pantry.  BUT none of these “issues” can prevent 418 Clarendon Avenue from being the HOME it has been for me, my siblings and all my family.

Nothing can compare to spending time in the home I grew up in.  Memories of some of the best laughs, cries, talent shows, deep discussions, dinners, poetry readings, punishments, books read to us by Mama and even chores we were assigned and did or didn’t do are very present in the house each time I enter my parents’ house until the time I leave.  Pictures fill the walls, tables, photo albums and almost any available space chronicling our days in the home of my parents.

Seven children, two parents, cousins, friends and family filled our house in the 70s and 80s ALL the time. My parents had all those children but always welcomed almost anybody we considered our friends.  They fed anybody who was with us. Our friends joked us all the time saying my mom cooked in cafeteria pots. In retrospect, I kinda think she did. It was nothing for us to have an extra body at the table. Even before we made the big move to 418 from 420, my sisters brought friends home all the time.  My oldest sisters cheered for the school and brought some of the guys on the team home who stayed after school for basketball games because it was too far for them to go back to their neighboring towns after school and get back for the games.  They found their place around the table and ate heartily. My parents never grumbled.

My mother has transitioned to heaven and my father has remarried. However, the HOME is still intact. My dad and stepmother love having us there. Nothing makes my dad smile -- and sometimes cry (he’s a crybaby) more than having all his “chickens in the nest”. We may not have the sleeping space we had back in the 70s and 80s and we may not be able to get the entire family around one table anymore but the HOME is still filled with the love and the sense of family it has always been.  The house itself is not the same house it was when we were growing up but the HOME has never changed. The HOME is still there.  It’s not the physical structure that makes it our home. It’s the love and the sense of family that make it our HOME.

A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME!