31 Years…”In That House”

31 years my mom has lived in that house.

In terms of Survivor, she’s the sole survivor. She's out-witted, out-lasted and out-played all the rest of us.

In terms of Big Brother, she’s the HOH (Head of Household…just for the record, she always was!!!).

In terms of Deal or No Deal, she took the deal that landed her with a buyer for her house and a soon to be condo owner.

I was brought home from the hospital to that house.

I first crawled in that house.

I took my first steps in that house.

I played tag with my siblings and got the door shut on (yes ON) my face in that house.

I lived in every bedroom in that house except the master bedroom, I even lived out on the back porch which my brother made into a bedroom at one time but isn’t any longer.

I cried in that house.

I laughed in that house.

I felt at home in that house (for the record, I still do).

I was bad in church at times, so they made me sit in the laundry and watch them make breakfast in that house.

I had arguments in that house.

I went up and down the staircases both inside and outside of that house more times than I can even imagine possible.

I celebrated many birthdays in that house.

I decorated many a Christmas tree in that house (sometimes even by myself).

Santa Clause came to bring me presents in that house.

Santa Clause also brought my coal to that house.

I prematurely opened Christmas packages from my grandmother and then taped them back up in that house.

The Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy both found me in that house.

I chased many cats around that house.

I dragged “bot” around that house (which is probably why it is shambles today).

I almost ate rabbit poop off the bathroom floor of that house thinking they were raisins (for the record, I didn’t!!!).

I spent many hours on the phone in that house.

I got my first “aunt flo” at age 9 in that house.

I had many sleepovers with ~Moonshine~ in that house (for the record, she was the only one I allowed to have sleep over because she just understood the situation with my dad and I didn’t worry about being embarrassed around her in regard to him).

I was there to celebrate my parent’s 25th wedding anniversary in that house.

I promised my underage brother and his friend I’d keep quiet about the alcohol he stole and brought home from the restaurant that burned down.

I rode my bike in circles in the street in front of that house.

I buried many cats in the yard outside that house.

I greeted my dad at the door each night, by jumping up in his arms and giving him a ginormous hug when he came home from working in the World Trade Center (for the record, I have a scar under my left boob from one of his pencils that jabbed me during one of those hugs).

I remember having a hawk fly into our front door window and having to take the window to get fixed so the front door could be whole again to that house.

I’ve played in the woods and heard the dinner bell on the deck and come home absolutely filthy to that house.

I got caught kissing a boy in that house.

I had my height charted on the door jam to the kitchen in that house (for the record, that door jam no longer exists since the kitchen was redone).

I spent many a school afternoons huddled in the couch because I was home alone and afraid of the boogie man so I locked myself in that house.

I got pegged in the eye by an egg one Halloween night at the front door of that house.

I watched my family be torn apart by my father’s illness in that house.

And then I watched my mom put our family back together in that house (for the record, on more than one occasion).

I lived with my parents while my siblings moved out and moved on, leaving me to fend for myself with my dad in that house.

I’ve spent many summers after camp was over, playing cards with my grandmother when she would come to visit us from Florida in that house.

I’ve climbed on the roof to set up the big light up pumpkin for Halloween on top of that house.

I emptied the dishwasher in that that house.

I had my baby shower in that house just this very year.

I always felt loved in that house no matter what else was going on.

And now, as mom prepares to move on with her life, out of that 5 bedroom house, I have been able to expand my resume of things I’ve done with “that house”.

I’ve cleaned out the attic in that house.

I’ve cleaned out the garage in that house.

I’ve packed up the bathrooms in that house.

I’ve packed and packed and packed more of that house.

I’ve made several garbage bags from contents of that house.

I will miss that house.

I have loved that house.

That house will always be my home.

For the 18 years I lived there until college, and the last almost 13 years, I have always thought that house my home. The memories both good and not so good are the pattern of my life today. The smell when I walk through the door, the feeling I get as I sit on the couch and just take it all in, the sounds of birds chirping outside the windows or the woodpecker in the old tree out front pecking away. I can hear a car coming up the road and distinguish if it’s one of ours or not before it even reaches the top of the hill. The view through the bare trees of the distant mountains from the deck in the winter time. The light breeze that rushes through the house when the conditions are right. All of these things are just a small sampling of what made that house, my home, for nearly 31 years. These things, my family, my friends the sounds, the sights, the smells, the events made me who I am today. These pieces, big or small stitched my life together. I am happy for my mom to be moving on with her life, but at the same time nostalgic. I already think about years from now knocking on the door and saying, “Hi, you’re living in my house, can I just see it one more time, smell it one more time, hear it one more time, FEEL it just one more time?” I have stories of that house. Memories I will cherish for always. And I have tales of “The Big Move 2007” that I am working on the entry for and it won’t disappoint. One being that I’m not calling the new place mom is living by its complex name…it is known as “The Flip Side”. Someday, I’ll be proud when Li’l Foot asks if we can go to “The Flip Side” to visit grandma and I’ll know exactly what she’s referring to.

Li’l Foot will not remember grandma’s old house, nor will she ever be able to imagine the history inside those walls. It will be up to me to paint the picture for her.