What is a house? I believe, that in the literal sense of the term, it is an accessory, a fashion statement, a doormat, a shelter, a storage locker, and an outhouse. A house is merely a space through which bodies pass in order to collect, remove, and improve things on their person to make them presentable for public appearance. However, when that house is occupied for any considerable length of time and memories are made, children are spawned, love is shared, and it collects the dust thereof: it becomes a home. Homes are not simply places that contain dressers, toilets, cupboards, and beds—they are places in which lessons are learned, children grow, and life is lived by various definitions in various cultures.
In Nicole Lamy’s essay, she explains her detachment and lack of feeling towards the many architectural spaces she once called home. I suppose if I were to switch dwellings as often as she and her family did, I, too, would be much less able to remember my house as a home. In order for a house to become a home, one must remain there for a significant amount of time in order to make memories, establish constants, and make every aspect of the home one’s own with personal touches and belongings. Nicole Lamy and her family never remained in one place long enough to make those memories and create a comfortable, “homey” environment.
My mother did an excellent job of creating an environment that was our own and like no other. However, the personal touches that she used to create a comfortable environment with are no longer a part of the house. Of course, a few items have been left, but having not occupied that space for over a year and a half, the things that used to be so familiar are now foreigners in my world. Everything had always been so comfortable: each item in a place that made change seem unbearable when the time came for me to leave. When I first moved, it was so strange to be in another person’s created environment besides my mother’s; yet when I returned to visit, all those things that had always made me feel so at home felt eerily strange and different. You know that feeling you get when you notice something for the first time that has been in place for quite a while (or, in my case, my entire life)? That’s exactly how I feel walking into that house currently. Of course, some things are still familiar and comforting like the bathroom tiles whose pattern I have memorized over the years, or the shower, or, of course, the refrigerator. I suppose the places that I occupied the most throughout my life are remembered the most— anything to do with food and cleanliness!
For eighteen years I called Maryland home. By that, I mean that I made my territory (about a fifteen mile diameter) my home. It was the place that I felt comfortable, where I spent my time living, growing, breathing, and making memories. In a more literal sense of the term “home”, I lived in the same four walls for those eighteen years. I remember as a child crying at the thought of ever having to leave those walls that were so familiar and precious to me. I suppose they say that moving is always difficult, but for me it was especially so—that house was home to me my entire life, and dealing with the change and oddity of returning to an empty bedroom-turned office was a very hard thing to do. Had the place surrounding my home (people, town, overall environment) not become so unpleasant, I would most likely still be there. I suppose that proves that it is not only the house and home that you reside in that makes your space a place, but the community and surrounding areas as well that make such a difference.
I loved that house. White cape cod, black shutters and roof, fort in the back yard, little shed where I loved to go to find things to dig with or play with in the fort, for years—a sandbox, and the farmland that surrounded it all—all things that made me happy, and even now, make me sad to remember. Though the memories remain, the people and objects with which they were created no longer exist in that place. Not all the furniture is gone, and there are quite a few things left out until it sells, but it still feels empty and lonely. Rather than entering and throwing my stuff down, picking up the mail to see what I received, and going off to my room, I am left to carefully remove my shoes and place my bags neatly wherever I’m going to be sleeping for the duration of my visit. There is no expectation of mail, no familiar things in the refrigerator for me to grab on my way to my room, and no pets to run outside and care for. Now, when we return to visit (as it is not yet sold) it simply no longer seems like a home to me. Its stark cleanliness is almost abrasive and uncomfortable, nothing like the “lived in” wreck I used to call my home.
I still remember the times when we were all a family in that house, whether happy or unhappy, it was our home, full of love, and full of everything that meant anything to us. But now, however, that place, that home, has become merely a space in which I lay my head down when we visit. I suppose it could almost be compared to a hospital room or a doctor’s office waiting room. It is now simply a space that we travel through, when it used to be a place where we enjoyed each other and shared love and memories together. When I go back now and slow down the vehicle to turn in the drive-- the realtor’s sign, well kept yard, perfectly parked cars, and eerie unfamiliar appearance, make my stomach ache.
Last summer I stayed in Maryland at that house while I worked at a summer camp. At that point we were just beginning to have showings for the house, and each time, the showings would be preceded by a frantic runabout to make sure everything was perfectly in place: each floor impeccably vacuumed, and candles set on the open counter next to a plate of cookies to make it smell homey. A few times I loathed the historical tradition of welcoming guests with baked goods, seeing it as just one more thing to have to do in preparation for people who were going to take my home away from me.
I wonder how it looks from a stranger’s eyes; I wonder what they see when they walk into my kitchen and stand on the mat that my dad was always straightening out. Do they see it with as much comfort as I did, or do they perhaps only see it as walls and beams connected to sheetrock and varnished with carpet and tile? I like to think that I am accepting of someone turning my place into theirs and finding as much enjoyment out of it as I have these past twenty years, but in all honesty, my heart doesn’t want to release the keeper of so many memories to another group of grubby hands. Regardless of my inhibitions, though, it must come to be. They’ll continue to go and walk through my house, through the fairly large kitchen with oak wood cabinets, blue countertop, and brushed metal sink and on through the dining room which my mother loved in its mauve glory with sliding door facing the spacious back yard. Many mornings/evenings were spent staring out that door marveling at the beautiful sunsets or simply enjoying the fact that not a person or house was in sight: that our home was our own and private. Next, they’ll continue down the hall and do the one thing that previously would have made my mother shriek in horror: peek in her private bedroom which is attached to the master bath. Of course, it is much cleaner now than it has ever been, but the thought of a stranger doing such five years ago brings a smile to my face. Adjacent to my parent’s bedroom is mine. That room has served three purposes in my lifetime: from birth until I was maybe twelve or so, it was shared by my brother and I, but was then, as his room was finished upstairs, it received a paint/redecorating job and became solely mine! After I left, however, it became an office for my dad to keep his many papers. On the other side of the kitchen, the viewer will see the living room with its three windows that always let in so much light in the mornings. They will stand on the sky blue carpet where wrestling matches were held between both man and dog, and where we often sat to watch television or a movie. Between the living room and the staircase is the front door through which the sunlight poured in and, no matter what season it was, would warm you if you sat in it. Also from the front door, one could stand and view the road, see countless cars including people you know. Rounding the corner, I suppose the careless intruders may begin ascending the blue carpeted stairs to the second floor. This floor was never finished until we were beginning the moving process: It only held my brothers rather large room and a small bathroom. Now, however, the rest of the space is perfect for a family room atmosphere or whatever else one may think of.
It is my bittersweet hope that someday soon another family will be able to experience this house and make their own memories within it; that they will be able to transform the space into which they first walk into a place where they can feel at home. I desire for them that they’ll experience a home—not a house—full of hugs and laughter and relaxed humor rather than the tight-lipped, wide-eyed uncomfortable feelings that they will first experience when viewing my home for the first time.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YlXpUhAWRWs
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