Going Home for Christmas

An extra post because of the holidy. Merry Christmas

Going Home for Christmas
As I grew older there seemed to be nothing so wonderful, so good, and so blessed as to be home for Christmas to the place where I grew up. This was my home place where I learned to walk, talk, and play with my brother Kenneth Beck and my sister Kathy Beck Basinger. It was the house where we all grew up with our parents Sybil Miner Beck and E. Carl Beck. It was the place where we were raised, nurtured and loved.
When my father bought the land it 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 half basement and half crawl space beneath it. I didn’t forget to include an indoor bathroom because there wasn’t one. There was a path and an outhouse to the rear of the yard.
The house expanded over the years I lived there 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. Later in life we gathered within those walls to enjoy the annual celebrations of Christmas and Thanksgiving. We would and share our lives with our parents and each other as we sat, talked, and ate.
When my parents died my sister held many of the family gatherings, but one year, I opened my house for Christmas. Since I am widowed, it meant more than my usual cleaning and to provide an extra table and chairs, but it was worth it. I made my home ready. I prayed that this house where they learned to walk, talk, and play would become a treasured memory. I hoped this house where they were raised, nurtured, and loved would be remembered as the home where they celebrated Christmas.
My grandchildren now come here for Christmas and hopefully the memories of love and this house will be passed on to another generation. Merry Christmas.