Loss & Home

No, I didn't take photos of the smoke. I could have. I still could. There's plenty around. It smells of smoke in my condo.

My thoughts are of friends who were among the first to lose their home--a new one for them. And my thoughts go back to neighbors a few houses down the street who lost all but the shell of their home back in Springfield, MO, when our children were toddlers and babies.

Homes are so important. They are our places to be. The place that is ours. While we may think of ourselves as citizens of the world, home is our place. I chose my parents house in town as home for many years. I didn't live in that house until I was a senior in high school. The house I had grown up in was on the farm my parents sold to allow us to move to town. It wasn't a place I wanted to call home. But my attachment to that house in town lasted long after it housed my parents. It was hard to let go. I kept it past it's maximum dollar value. I was deeply emotionally attached.

I expect that it has been torn down now. The neighbor's son-in-law bought it, planning to tear it and his inlaws house down (after they both died) and build an office building there. I know it didn't happen as soon as he had planned, but by now--probably the scraping has been done whether or not the building has been erected. That house was the one I was most attached to. It had been my first safe space.

I have moved often enough that I have left a number of houses behind. Two I had lived in when new, had chosen paint and wallpapers, fixtures and flooring. One I left too quickly (it almost sold out from under me) and other deep griefs left no space for grieving the house that I had so enjoyed. The second was my home in Chattanooga--space I loved as much because the huge windows let the lovely out-of-doors in as for the finishes I had chosen. I was awakened by the sun rising over the lake through the sliding doors of my bedroom. I looked up from my computer at my rose garden--one I'd put in myself. Unexpected tears well in my eyes as I remember it now. It was the only home I've had that spoke of me. If you knew and visited me, you knew that was my home. It may be the last one I'll have.

I have made peace with having only a rental home--space that can't be really mine as I can't paint the walls or change the finishes. I've noticed some spurts of grief as I'm writing, but acceptance is present. My space is filled (crammed you might say) with my "stuff." I have stuff to share. I've downsized dramatically from the rambling ranch on Trimble Road--the home my adult children and their friends miss. (I miss living in that neighborhood and all the activity that took place in that home more than I miss the house.) I've left furniture with my son and daughter-in-law--some they are using and some no longer of use. I have boxes and chairs in my garage. There are photos everywhere. I am reminded to spend some winter days working on photograph books.

The first years I lived in Colorado most of my things were stored or in my daughter's living space. I actually got along fine without them. I was, however, glad to have them back in my space when that was possible. Many of those things have since been let go as I downsized a couple more times.

The photograph is of my Great-grandfather Wood's rocking chair, one he made, according to the lore. It was in our farm house but was painted white. Mother had it moved, along with a pie safe, also painted white, to the old farm house on Dad's farm when we moved to town. I rescued them, thankfully, as the other piece that she had stored there that was an antique had been stolen. Mother had thought they were oak--a wood she considered worthless. When Dad and I began to strip them, we discovered they were both walnut. I got them when we closed the house, years later. I've used that image because it's of a piece of furniture that holds family history, one I would mind losing. I would mind losing the orange vase too. I blew it from a piece of glass so it's a sentimental decoration. Neither are worth a lot of money. It's the things that hold memories that are hard to lose.

A removing clutter expert once said that we should take photos of things we want to remember and save the photos rather than the things. I am taking pictures of my historical pieces, but am not yet ready to part with all of them. On the other hand, there are things that I've kept because I needed a little table or a chair here or there. So my living space is comprised of things I enjoy and things I think I need. I'm wondering about those needs. Are they real? And might not GGWood's rocker be better off at my son's home? And that china cabinet made of cherry wood from the farm where three generations of Wood-related people were born (including me)--what about that huge piece that towers over a corner of my living space? Those aren't decisions for today, but as I let go of attachments, I have more work to do.

Home--it is where I am, right?!