The House that Built Me
I have mentioned my Gram & Gramp and their home, and the place they have, front & center, in the my personal history, many times. Over the last few weeks, as I have browsed through some old photos, and again as I composed "Where I'm From," a seed of an idea was planted & taking root.
I was blessed to have two homes as I grew up. I lived with my Dad & brother in the same house where my Gramp was born, but I believe I spent at least the same amount of time in my grandparents' home. It was the place where Dad dropped us off before work, when I hadn't already spent the night. It was where we gathered in the evening, after work & school. It was the site of holidays & weekly Sunday dinners. I spent my Summers running wild through the three & a half acres of grass & trees and riding my bike up & down the quiet street.
So many of my memories find their home here. I can close my eyes and see it all, even now, to the minute detail. The sights, tastes & smells. The way it sounded & felt. Each creak as the house settled. Each hiss of a radiator. The view from every window. But if there is one thing I have learned in my three and a half decades on this earth, it is that memories cannot be taken for granted. They can slip away silently, leaving sadness when the power the recall loses its vitality...or worse, when a memory is so thoroughly lost, we aren't even aware it ever existed.
And so, bit by bit, week by week, I believe it is time to capture & record it. I want to recollect, wander quietly down memory lane & let the images surface, where I can grab them & turn them into more pieces of my recorded history. All of these fragments that make up The House that Built Me.
