Going Home for Christmas
As I grew older, there was nothing so wonderful and good as to be home for Christmas. It was the place where I grew up. This was the home place where I learned to walk, talk, and play. It was the house where me, my brother, Kenneth, and my sister, Kathy were raised. It was the place where we were nurtured and loved.
When my father, Edson Carl bought the land is had a small cottage covered in brown Inselbrick tar paper. Inside, there were two tiny bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room that surrounded a covered porch in a U shape. The House had a half basement and half crawl space. I didn’t forget to include an indoor bathroom, because there wasn’t one. There was an outhouse to the rear of the yard.
It expanded over the years to include a full basement, another bedroom, and indoor plumbing. It became a home filled with love where life was celebrated, routine days, birthdays, and of course the holidays. My favorite celebrations were Christmas and Thanksgiving where everyone gathered and shared our lives with our parents and each other sitting, talking, and eating.
When my parents died, my sister held many of the family gatherings, but this year, I opened my house for Christmas. Since I am widowed, it meant more than usual cleaning and providing an extra table and chairs, but it was worth it. I made ready my home for my kids, the house where they learned to walk, talk, and play. It was the house where they were raised, a home where they were nurtured and loved. They came home to celebrate Christmas.
My grandchildren were here and hopefully the memories of love and a home will be passed on to another generation. Merry Christmas.