The first house: the upstairs of a farm house. Two small rooms for a young couple with an infant.
Meanwhile, in a nearby town, he is building their real first house. It will have two bedrooms, a den with pine paneling. The kitchen counters will not have sharp corners, but rounded ones. The cabinets will be of pine. The living room will have a large plate glass window looking out on the street, hardwood floors, a small dining nook in a corner. There will be no attic, but there will be a roomy basement with an extra shower, sink, and a wall of wooden storage shelves. The house has pine green siding and white trim. This is how she remembers it. Her father designed and built it during his spare time.
But they left her father’s house and moved back to the farm house—her grandparents’ house. It would be over 20 years before he built another house. After he’d found another place to call home.
Over the years, she has bounced from house to house; often reflecting on the difference between a house and a home.
+ = + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
A house is no home unless it contains food and fire for the mind as well as the body.
It always amazes me to think that every house on every street is full of so many stories; so many triumphs and tragedies, and all we see are yards and driveways.
One small cat changes coming home to an empty house to coming home.