When writing my book, “A Field of Miracles,” I started seeing that our homes can become almost like one of the family. Maybe it takes a certain personality to make this happen, but I felt like the houses we lived in during those years I wrote about were as much characters as the people who I was writing about. The memories were tied to them somehow. Like when I stepped on a brace of staples, it reminded me of the room it took place in. That made me try and see the rooms (although it’s been over fifty years since I’ve walked them) and when I couldn’t remember much, I was disappointed. As if not remembering the house meant I couldn’t remember the people and the daily happenings. Which is somewhat true for me.
In the next to last house we lived in, the memories once again included the house, its rooms and furniture and pictures. The yard at that house was yet another character as my brothers and I spent a lot of time traipsing the grounds. It seemed strange to me that those houses and that yard would be like another character, but maybe it is not that strange. Wherever we were in those houses, it was our primary surrounding. Even more so than the people, as the people came in and out and left one after the other. The house was constant, never shifting (except for the orange paint on the walls that my mother loved so much – I can’t remember it any other way now as those were the years we lived in it); the house was always there.
So, ultimately, our homes can become our friends. Every time we talk to ourselves, they hear every word, and whatever room we are in is pressed into the memory of the people in it or the task we are doing. We can find solace in that house when all the children are gone, or the husband or wife pass away. It is our earthly home. And isn’t home where the heart is?
The link to purchase my book, A Field of Miracles: https://a.co/d/7QSXTC3
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