Curling bannisters, balconies, frosted corbels and woodwork, porches and nooks... I love old houses. Obsessed with them, more like it. Years of yearning, while nesting in subdivision homes of cookie cutter redundance, has made me treasure the years my husband wrapped us in the house of my dreams in a little town of Reedsburg Wi. The coziness of its fortress-like hug, is but a memory, or more like a hangover, not leaving my heart ever quite the same. Like having the perfect husband, who is long gone, new ones just don't compare.
I grew up with a Dad who had wanderlust in his blood...or soul, I can't divine the two. He had "Big Ideas" always. Fortunately, for us, he had the carpentry skills and the diligence to build and remodel. Never once did he fail to provide a home made with imagination and excitement. I grew up with the smell of paint in my nose, the dust of wood cut carefully to fit together like Lincoln Logs, and a layer of his hard work muting the colors of our clothing until we dusted off before bed and bath.
As soon as one house was completed to satisfaction, my dad would move us to another Big Idea and started over from scratch again. My dad was a River Rat, having grown up on the Kawkawlin River with the mouth of the Saginaw Bay within a short walk from his home shore. He remained a River Rat, pretty consistently, with every move we made... moving about 3 miles from his original childhood nest. I attended four elementary schools in the Bangor School District, which, to me was a plus. By the time I got into the Jr. High, I had accumulated friends from previous years in each school, helping my popularity a bit. But each "new" home was soon gutted, painted, added onto, and otherwise "touched" by my dad's artwork. I loved it. I breathed enough sawdust that I guess I didn't need fresh air anymore. I "caught" my dad's wanderlust.
My mother's blood, was made of simpler and more consistent stuff. She must have loved my father very much to have made him her life. She did not transition easily. It did not help that my Dad often did not give us any warning, but walked in the door with a couple of boxes in hand. I did not sense, from my mother, the spark of excitement that I felt. I will never know if my parents planned together or made decisions to uproot together. My mom never seemed surprised, but never gave us her own warning either. I just saw her gritted teeth, and her mechanical distribution of orders, directed at my older sister and me. My brother and sister, because they were so much younger than us, were off the hook. My job was to keep them out of the way and entertained....not to bother any of the adults doing the "important" work of packing.
It wasn't until recently, that I have sought internal peace and understanding of my soul. Nobody in my family has moved more than I have. I don't say that as a braggart nor do I say that as a degradation, but just a statistic. I have ever yearned for the big old homes of by-gone eras, that I've read about in stories. I have always wanted to be a "Little Women" type growing up in Victorian charm. And a "Cheaper by the Dozen" family surrounding me with life and fun sliding down the bannisters of a 1920's mansion, well-worn with family...
Realizing, all of a sudden, that my children will never experience the memory filled home of their childhood, stable and never-changing, I recognize my Father. I have moved my boys from place to place, while trying to find my footing in a world fraught with change. Nothing is stable for them, for us. The closest I have gotten to my dream was after I found my sweet husband, Chris. I have ever searched for "home" in houses, in communities, in apartments and in farms. When Chris purchased our first Big Old Charming House in Wisconsin, just for me.... oh, I rolled in every corner and nook like a pig happy in the mud. Seth was able to slide down the stairs in a box, and he had a clubhouse deep in the secret closet under those stairs. Good memories were made and my heart was satisfied. I thought it was because the house was charming.
Too few years we had in that home. We found ourselves having to make a move to better assure our family an income. We sold our home with heavy hearts.... I felt like I was saying goodbye to my dream. We purchased a cookie-cutter house in a cookie-cutter neighborhood in a state that stifled my spirit. I threw myself into the remodeling of this new, sterile house. Trying to make it something it could never be. We lived there for eight years, to allow my youngest to solidify his education. We made the best of it. But I no longer could touch my dream, and I mourned it.
My husband recognized my dream, and held it close, even when I was trying so hard to let it go. Quietly, he determined that he would get that dream back to me, without realizing exactly what that dream was. The time came, after our youngest graduated high school, to let go of cookie-cutter. We followed our boys to New England... where houses were charming and towns were exciting and warm. We bought our charming old house. I wallowed, at first. When my youngest left for college, shortly after we unpacked our boxes... I became aware of the quiet. The dust. The broken doorknobs. The shifty cupboards. The stained floors. The stairs.... so ....many...stairs.
I am 61 years old. My children are their own people. I am not the most evident in their lives at this point. Sitting down abruptly, in the middle of this charming Doris Day house, I cried. I sobbed, and I broke.
What I finally realized, in this journey of mine, was that I had the wanderlust of my father, but the dreams of my mother's soul ...of history and of family and of stability...... I had disregarded as dust to be waved away in annoyance. I chose the wanderlust as my venue to seek the stability. Talk about an oxymoron. What I realize, with intrigue, is that I have been living my dream on OTHER people's history in their homes.... the dings in the woodwork, the worn spots on the bannister.... were made by people I will never know. My children do not see this as "home".... no matter how old, how charming a place is.... it can never truly be our home.
My husband has been gone this week. He drove my son to a new college in a different state....2,000 miles away. Looking forward to him coming home.... it appears I may have misunderstood what "home" really was. We are empty nesters, in a too-large nest, filled with antiques of other people's histories. We are living in borrowed charm. And it will never become "home." My husband is coming "home" to me. We are each other's "home." Wherever we are, if we are together, we are truly "home." That is something good to wallow in.
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