The Rock House, Part 4 (of 4)

I guess the last thing to say about saying to goodbye to my childhood home is that it is no longer my home.  After six years of marriage, J and I bought our own house for the first time.  It was the tenth time we had moved as a couple.  We've added four more transitions to the tally in the last nine years.  All the moving around has really helped detach me from the idea that a structure is home.

This side of heaven, J is my home.  Wherever he is, is home.  In a hotel, the van, apartment, living with family, in a house... if he's there, I'm at home.  When he's not there, no place--however comfortable or familiar--is quite home.

And on the other side of heaven, I know my Savior has a beautiful place prepared for me.  So any roof I find myself under during this lifetime is just that--a roof.  It's the relationships that make home for me, and why it really will be okay to say goodbye to the rock house.

The Rock House, Part 3

On my last visit to the rock house, Mom directed to me a card table stacked with papers and photos.  She said I could have any of it I wanted to keep, that most of it had been duplicated somewhere else and it was headed for the recycle bin.  Everyone else who had come for a last tour had already sifted through and kept what they wanted.

It took me a couple of hours to go through the piles.  It was all familiar, and yes, I already had duplicates of some of it.  One folder grabbed my attention, though.  It was the master copy of a notebook my Grandma had made for her grandchildren.  She photocopied one of those fill-in-the-blank template books with writing prompts to complete.  She had filled it all in, personalized for each of her 14 grandchildren, and gifted it to us in 1990.

I was 13.  We had been living with her for a year.  Sure it was cool that I lived in Grandma's big, fancy rock house.  My friends always wanted to know what it looked like inside.  Yes, the cookie jar was never empty.  But I regret that I completely missed the opportunity to harvest her wisdom, to listen to her stories, to tell her my own problems, to ask her advice.  I was young and didn't know better, self-absorbed and arrogant, thinking adults were clueless and couldn't possibly add any value to my circumstances.

My copy of the notebook piled up with other keepsakes and moved to a few new houses over the years.  I don't remember ever reading it.  At least, when I started reading the pages this time, it was very new.  Maybe it was seeing her original handwriting, or the years that added value, or my own experience as a mom wanting to impart meaning to my children.  Whatever the reason, her words were much weightier, more personal, valuable, significant.

"We still remember when you...'all were together at home and it is so hard to be alone now that Grandpa is gone.'

"I am happy that we all...'have so many good times to remember.  I hope that Grandpa and I have taught you all good things to remember.'

"I think our family is special because...'we all love each other so much and are all friends.'

"I was proud of...'the way my family could work and play together.  I was proud that I had learned to oil paint when all the children were in college and away from home.'

"I was always sorry I didn't...'travel more and get Grandpa to go with me, but he didn't like to travel as much as I did.'

"I felt very strongly about...'my family and home, and would not leave if I thought someone at home needed me.'

"I've changed my mind, and now I think...'women should have some time to do what they want to do, once in a while.  Don't wait until you are too old to go and do things.'

"My wish for the future is...'that all my family, children and grandchildren, will stay friends.  I want them to know each other and be able to play and work together.  I hope and pray that they are all Christians and love the Lord Jesus Christ.  May we be able to all be together often.  May none have to go to war.  May we all be proud of the name Grandpa gave us and keep it clean and good.  God bless each of you.  I love you all.'"

It is encouraging to me as a mom to read her words.  I never would have cherished them as a teen.  And this is another reminder that learning is a lifelong journey, not to be demanded immediately.  What I didn't grasp then, I am starting to understand now.  And it is the same for my children.  They can't fathom the depths of emotion those words stir, and I can't make them understand.  I can't demand that they value the blessing of grandparents nearby.  I can't force them to cherish every story.  I can't guarantee they won't take it completely for granted.  It will only be their own years and experiences that will prove these values in their hearts.  Like those who have hoed this row before me, it is mine to sow the seeds and wait patiently for the harvest, trusting the yield to Him who is able to give much more than I could ask or imagine.

The Rock House, Part Two

You're probably tired of photos of my parents' old house, so I'm sorry to say that part two of this min-series is much like the first.  Only these pics were taken by my 6-year-old.  I gave her my phone and asked her to snap photos of the things she wanted to remember about Grandma's house.  A few of the things worth remembering from her perspective...

the kitchen linoleum

the sago palm in the backyard 

that shady swing overlooking the yard

and the pavers underneath it 

the riding lawn mower that gave many a ride around the yard 

the screen door

Grandma's wind chimes

bicycle highway and chalk canvas

really gross bug-zapper

short person's view through the screen door

family photo wall

Grandpa's screen saver

toys on the red carpet

To be continued...(but I think that's all of the photos)

The Rock House, Part One

My parents closed on their new house this week, one day after signing the papers on their old home.  I am incredibly excited about them moving closer to us...within walking distance, even!  There will be many memories to come as they weave their wisdom into our daily lives.  But a new chapter can be best embraced when the old one has been carefully reviewed, paying attention to the little details that burn the story in your mind.  With that in mind, please indulge me this sentimental rambling as I close this chapter of my family's history.

This is the family homestead, designed and built by my father's parents in 1951, for a family of seven.  By my best guess, her children were 11,  9, 6-yr-old twins, and 4.  Makes me tired just thinking about it.  Those kiddos moved into that house and broke it in for the rest of us.  Those five kids had 14 grandkids and now, I don't know how many great-grandkids.  This house has sort of always been the family anchor.  So it is very surreal to think of it not belonging to "us" anymore.

I remember weeks at Grandma's house in the summer with my cousin; Christmas with all the extended family; gumbo dinners that I turned my nose up at; the smell of oil paints, chocolate chip cookies, and dusty farmers.

This oak, this mighty oak.  How many children have climbed its branches?  By the time his youngest grandkid came along (me), Grandpa had propped a ladder on the lowest limb to make it easier to get into the giant center.

How many brown grocery bags of juicy Satsuma oranges have been picked from these trees?  How many hours of hard labor invested to keep them producing?

How many feet smoothed those pavers as they pushed back and forth under the shade?

And this door.  How many welcomed, hugged, invited through that door?  Can you hear it slam when the children run out?  Can you hear the slow creak as she tempers its speed and says one last goodbye?  Maybe the old chime that sang when the wooden door was closed again?

How many nervous jumps off those steps?  "Can you do it from the top one?"  How many concerts sung, recitals performed, tricks displayed on that stage?  Me and my cousins, then my children and their cousins.

That frustrating gate latch!  It took me years to be able to lift that latch high enough to swing it open.

Same for those cabinet pulls with built-in childproofing.  I see their genius now; but good grief, how many times must a child pinch their finger in the button before figuring it out?

Apparently not enough to keep us from playing in the hamper.  "Welcome to Jack-in-the-Box.  May I take your order?"  You know, I played in that hamper many a time, but it was my own girls who showed me the side panel came open (for plumbing access) and the hole on the other side was large enough to sit in!

And what can we say for the floor heater?  Many a warning about that floor heater!  So grateful it was "just for show" by the time my little ones were mobile.

Speaking of warnings.... how many little children warned not to leave their toys lying about?  You never know where they'll turn up!  "Look what happened to your Daddy's toys."

How many more caresses did those toys get for being preserved in that wall?

 How many years planned and arranged on the inside of that cabinet door?

Oh, the very many dishes washed at that enormous sink with the built-in drainboard.  And the stories that sink could tell of the conversations shared while doing dishes.

Then there's the awfully avocado oven that's baked up thousands of batches of loving kindness.  And I do believe there has always been a Bible on that corner shelf.  More wonderful is that I think there has always been someone to read a Bible every morning in that kitchen before the sun comes up.

You get the idea.  Every nook and cranny of that house has been loved by lots of people.  It's been showing its age for awhile now.  Memories don't usually share the ugly parts, like all the maintenance and upkeep that comes with a house that old and that loved.  That's why I'm glad my folks can close the chapter on this part of our family history.  It's starting to be a not-so-fun chapter to read every day.  And it's much more exciting to be part of our daily chaos.

To be continued...