Home is where your memories are
I longingly read a magazine article that recalled the author going to their childhood home for Christmas and tucking their young family into the beds that they slept in as children.
“Does that still exist in this transient society” I thought? What about the friend who told me she returned to visit her childhood home and found a highway there instead. Upon inquiring with the neighbours, she found out her childhood home had been bulldozed down to make room for progress.
What about military families who may have had their young families in a far off country that would be too far away to return for a visit?
My mother brought us back to her family home that was now owned by someone else. Standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the building she started to cry as she recalled her parents now long gone. The owners of the house saw her tears and kindly opened their front door for her to see the entrance once again. We didn’t see her bedroom nor would she be able tuck us into her childhood bed.
Do some family homes bring back painful memories that no one wants to return to?
How many of us can return to our family homes to show our families our childhood bed? Would you want to?
We all know that home is where the heart is. If we are unable to return to our childhood home, perhaps we can make new memories? Is that even possible? In our house, food is the memory. We will sit around in the afternoons enjoying tea and the conversation will quickly revolve around food. Today we started talking about these Italian cookies my grandmother made, we called them ‘Clara’s Bows’. A pencil width pretzel shaped cookie that was fried, drizzled with honey and dusted with powdered sugar. Then my aunt’s Italian desserts that she made with ricotta cheese and chopped up mint, they weren’t my favorite but she’d always put powdered sugar on top and we’d eat them up with her big, brown betty tea pot in the middle of the table.
Blessed are the story tellers, for they can pass down stories and traditions that will linger long afterwards, even when there isn’t a house to visit.
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