I fell in love with big, blue skies and wide-open spacesthanks to the house I grew up in, surrounded as it was by fields marking the seasons: Spring’s brown to green, summer’s green morphing to autumn’s brown, then onto winter’s white.
Mom and Dad planned the house I grew up in while we five were a new family in an old farm house that my father grew up in. (But it never looks old in pictures as Mom always makes a place warm, cozy, home, gezellig.)
Thanks to the house I grew up in I have memories to visit: Times spent with sisters (who now are closest friends)… Having company over (neighbours, family, friends)… Felines who moved past back steps to the back porch to the kitchen to the whole ding-dang house (as only cats can)... So many recollections which with a few words five (then eight then hello, kids!) know and understand and share.
I could describe the house I grew up in. The kitchen, the living room and bedrooms and bathrooms and basement. The way it changed over the years, but never stopped being “Mom’s and Dad’s”. Yet, somehow, it wouldn't capture all that it was.
And now – as is the pattern of many a life – It’s time to say goodbye to the house I grew up in. Its rooms are empty, and still so full. Seasons will continue to pass, clouds will form and drift and dissipate to form anew. And the walls within which we live will continue to move, to shift, to grow, and to change as we all create and carry memories of the houses we grew and grow and live and change in.