My mother recently decided to move out of my childhood home, the home where I stored 18 years of junk in with some memories. So naturally, we spent last weekend helping her clear the junk and store the memories.
I’ve moved several times now: into college dorms, out of college dorms, into an apartment, into a different apartment, and finally into the home that Bryson, Auggie, and I share. But, never have I had the pleasure of moving someone who was stationary for 18 years.
A lot changes in 18 years.
Divorces. Deaths. Babies.
Friendships. Boyfriends. Heartbreaks.
Bikes to Cars. Barbies to Cell Phones. Children’s Clothes to Prom Dresses.
Sorting through it all was a little overwhelming and emotional. I can’t imagine how my mother felt, knowing this is where she had built her life, my life, and my sister’s, and now, it’s moving.
Some of it moved to the trash. A bunch of it moved to Salvation Army. Some moved to a storage unit. Others of it moved to the home my sister and mom will share. And more than enough of it moved to my basement.
I told Bryson after we finished organizing all our new keepsakes into storage boxes in our basement that this means we’re truly adults now.
First of all, we have a place to put it. Secondly, our parents no longer store our memories for us.
The children’s rocking chair. The preschool hand print. The kindergarten graduation pamphlet.
The prom dresses. The senior yearbook. The college thesis. The first job acceptance letter.
We store it all now.
Reflecting on the weekend, or really the past 18 years, I’ve taken away two ideas:
Home isn’t Where the House Is
This was my childhood home, but it wasn’t my childhood. It’s where I learned important life skills, suffered teenage heartbreak, became friends with my mother, got kicked in the groin by my sister’s foot and almost had to go the ER, danced to boy-bands, snuck boys in the window in the middle of the night, snuck out that same window, washed all the windows to get un-grounded, celebrated my graduations (high school and college), accidentally fed the birds the Halloween dessert my mom and I worked so hard on (and then fed it to Bryson), discovered I was going to be an aunt, soaked bottles in water with my mother until our hands pruned in preparation for my wedding, left Auggie for the first time, and the list goes on.
Does walking through my childhood home stir up the memories? Sure. But the home doesn’t house them. The memories made in that house live on through those we shared them with.
My hope is that the young couple moving into the house can make as many funny, sad, happy, painful, ridiculous, giddy memories as my mom, sister, and I have.
A Welcoming House is a Good Home
Cleaning out the house was a good reminder of how many people we were able to share memories with.
Growing up, my mom always had what we called “an open door” policy and three rules: “No sex. No drugs. No alcohol.” You were always welcome, pending you didn’t break the three rules. And boy, people came!
While my sister and I were in school, there was hardly a weekend, or even a weekday, that we didn’t have friends over. When we didn’t have friends, or even when we did, we always had family just visiting or there to eat one of my mom’s famous 5 dinners (meatloaf, taco soup, boiled brats, THE sandwich, or baked chicken salad).
My grandmother lived a few blocks up, and more recently, just across the street. When we were moving my mother, she came trotting over as usual to assist. Another friend stopped and showed us his new baby. An even older friend, drove by with her daughter just to say hi. My aunt drove up to check on the progress. A cousin came to pick up a window…
As Bryson and I drove home that evening, we talked about how much more we could have gotten done without the interruptions. And then it hit me.
The interruptions made the house a good home.
The example my mother set is something I hope to learn to possess in my own home. Bryson and I live very structured, almost anal lives, but in the past few years, we’ve intentionally worked at establishing a more welcoming home. Becoming welcoming is a learned trait; a trait my mother takes the gold in, and one I hope to gain.
After all, a welcoming house is a good home, and who doesn’t want a good home?
