No_Place_Like

They say you can't go home again. That the streets of your hometown are forever winding in different directions, ever changing the path that they follow. We all would like to feel forever the warmth and security of the house we grew up in. We would like to think that good things never change, that our parents will live forever and that we'll always have a home to return to.

The house that I grew up in is steady in my memory. I will never forget the sound of the stairway that creaked with age, the clatter of the rolling pin as my mother pushed it across the kitchen table, or the way the front screen door would bang shut if you ran out too quickly. When I was young, all of these simple things about my home never entered my mind as being important. I never dreamed that these would someday be memories that I could not forget.

After my mother's death, it all seemed so final. Dad had been gone for more than 10 years, but I just thought I would have my mother with me a little longer.

We all knew that we did the right thing by selling the old home place. Mom wasn't capable, financially or physically, to take care of it anymore. The old front porch was giving way, the ceiling in one room upstairs was leaking every time it rained. Mom constantly worried about the foundation that was crumbling under the house. We wanted to do what we thought was best for her so we put the house up for sale.

Mom didn't even flinch when she signed the papers that finalized the selling of her home, a house that she had lived in for nearly 45 years. I think she was relieved. She was moving into an apartment for senior citizens - a place where someone else would worry about leaking ceilings.

Mom enjoyed her new home, however, when we were out together, we would find whatever reason we could to drive out of our way to go past the house. Sometimes my sister and I would deliberately drive by just to see how it looked. It was like having a family member that we had to check up on from time to time.

The people that bought our house were a young, newly married couple. They seemed very nice, but we couldn't help but wonder if we'd left the house in good hands.

About nine months after Mom had moved into her apartment, she passed away. All of a sudden, the many memories of childhood, Mom and Dad, and that old house came crashing in on me. All I wanted was for our family to gather around the old kitchen table once again. I wanted to hear the laughter that being together would always bring. At Christmas, I wanted to see the stairway dressed in holly and smell the pine of the Christmas trees from long ago. I wanted to hear my father's saw whining in the basement and hear the newly sawed board drop to the floor. I wanted to smell the aroma of the freshly cut grass and look down the backyard to see my father pushing the mower and grinning back at me. I wanted to dial the old phone number and hear my mother say "Hello!" I wanted to hear the old creaking stairway, the clattering rolling pin, and the bang of the old front door. I wanted to bring back the past. The house that my parents bought for $1,400 in 1942 now belonged to another young couple just starting their life together. In my heart, I wished them the best that life had to offer.

Just the other day, I was out driving. Going out of my way, I decided it was time to drive past the house. As I turned onto our old street, I could see the familiar shape of the old two-story frame. It was beautiful! The old green shingles had been replaced by a radiant gray siding. A candle shown in each glowing window. A charming red door opened onto a new front porch. The old house had been given a breath of freshness - a new beginning. I felt nervous as the young man opened the old red door to invite my sister and me inside. Our intentions were to just walk past and admire the house from the outside. But after talking to an old neighbor on the street about the house, we found ourselves at the front door.

After I walked through the front door and was standing in what used to be the dining room, I could feel the old house welcome us in. The walls and doors were all different, painted in warm colors. Ruffled curtains hung happily from each window. The carpet had been removed exposing the hardwood floors I had watched my father lay many years before.

The feelings that wer pouring from my heart were mixed. I felt so sad and so glad all at the same time. I missed the old house that I knew and loved so well, but at the same time I was so happy to see the warm country home that this couple had created.

We walked slowly through the house breathing in the warmth that overflowed from each room. I could feel the love that these young people already had for this old house . . . yes, I think our home is in good hands.

Well, they say you can't go home again, but I did. And now I know for sure . . . there's no place like home.