There's something about going home to the folks house for a visit.
I
think it's the snuggly cozy feeling of being away from home but in a
secure, unchanging place. The fancy glass jar in the bathroom that has
held the cotton balls ever since I was a kid. The family stories that
are retold at every gathering. The old, odd decorative plate on the
wall depicting one of the California missions--with a huge chip out of
one edge but painted in such lovely, softly glowing colors! The fact that I
know where everything is. And how things at Mom's house are
done...how our family washes dishes, takes walks, does laundry--even
argues. There is a comforting, set pattern.
Mom
is talking in a very decided manner of selling the place this year for a
home on a smaller lot closer to town. Since the current place is
nearly an acre and is 25 miles over mountain roads from the nearest
grocery store, this makes lots of sense. Driving 50 miles over mountain
roads in snow because you need a gallon of milk...well, it sucks. It
will also mean that we won't have such a large, gnawing worry at the
back of our minds every winter when we think of our elderly mother
navigating the icy back steps or waiting breathlessly to hear if this
years' wildfire has overtaken the house. To be sure, the worry will
still be there; but it will be a more manageable thing, not something
the size of a 50 foot Norwegian wharf rat.
As to the old
homestead...well, it's certainly old, but not the ancestral home. We
moved there during my sophomore year in high school and I moved away two
weeks after I graduated. But the place DOES have fond memories and
genuine historical value, and I'll certainly miss being able to walk
through the old barns and point out the hand-hewn beams and square nail
construction to my daughter. Couple that with being able to walk out
the back door and take a hike in the Sierras, mostly up to the old can
dumps that line the fire roads. The can dumps are where people way back
when would simply tote their non-burnable items--glass jars, cans,
metal, etc. and dump them. The can dumps therefore are now a treasure
trove of old bottles slowly turning purple in the sun, vintage beer cans
and bottle caps and many other wonderful things--if you come armed with
a shovel and stick and are willing to brave the rattlesnakes that have
moved in.
Unfortunately it also means that Mom will be unloading a
bunch of stuff in a yard sale in order to avoid having to move it. I'm
not sure she realizes that I love that beat up old coffee table and
matching end tables. Or how I used to gaze at that chipped old plate on
the wall done in those luscious colors. Or as a child, the Christmas
ornaments that became my favorites for whatever murky reason, and I now
prowl Ebay trying to find for my own tree, to pass along to my own
daughter. The dining room table I used to crawl under in the evenings
at Christmastime and after taking off my glasses would sit, surrounded
by all of my stuffed animals, to gaze at the beautiful out-of-focus,
softly glowing Christmas tree lights. So many times the things that
kids grow up and hold dear in their hearts are the weirdest damned
things! My parents would think nothing of throwing out old junk only to
hear one of us wail later, "What?! But I LOVED that!"
Even the dorky, old, cheapo glass cotton ball jar.
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