I know, I know — there is a world of difference between HOUSE and HOME, but this house is almost a friend. I’ve known this house since I was 7 years old when my father pulled in the dirt driveway declaring it our new home.

Oh, there were out-buildings: the chicken coop, the spring house (not really much of a building), the hop barn, the milk house, the stable, the middle barn, and the 3rd barn. I could probably write essays about each building, but today I will focus on the house.

It was already over 100 years old when we moved in. It had one closet — a chimney closet in my parents room. My room was a real room (with a cardboard closet), my youngest brother’s room was a former walk-in linen closet, my oldest brother and middle brother each had smallish rooms, and my sister’s room was hallway that my father walled off.

Of course, I could have this all wrong. I was, after all, only 7 years old at the time, and my main focus was my room, in the front north corner of the house. As I mentioned, it had a cardboard closet, a dresser, a bookshelf and a double bed — yes, a DOUBLE BED for lil’ol me. I could hear the mice in the walls while I fell asleep at night, scritch-scratching so close to my head that it almost felt as if they were in the same room.

My middle brother had a door into the attic in his room. It was a small door that’s still there, although now it leads to nothing. (I suppose that now makes it a magical door to another world, right?) Then, it led into an attic space which still had a few things in it, one of them being a trunk with clothes in it. Old clothes. Fancy clothes. We played and played dress-up with those clothes — dressing up in them, and then standing by the road and waving at passing cars. I’m sure some of those drivers did a double-take at the 10 year old boy wearing a long dress waving at them.

Such memories.

The kitchen was blue, the color of watery mouthwash. We could see the pipes in the ceiling leading to… the bathroom? It must be. I don’t remember. My excuse is still 7.

Anyhoo, my parents put in a dropped ceiling in the kitchen. It gave the mice another place to run. My mother loved wallpaper and chose a 70’s-ish green floral paper that is still there.

Their china closet went into the dining room, where it rattled if we ran past. It still rattles.

The room directly below my bedroom was called The Study. It was where my parents played bridge with their friends. The heat to my room was a single vent from the study up. On bridge nights, I heard every conversation through that vent. Also, when I was trying to fall asleep, the mice in the walls were drowned out by the sound of laughter when someone playing bridge told a funny story. That made me jump more than once!

So many memories!

The cardboard fireplace so we would have a place to hang our stockings:

The upright piano that came with the house:

The summer kitchen off the back:

I could keep going and going — how it was, how it is today…

Ah, how it is today.

I live here alone now. It’s full of stuff and memories. I’m not sure which there is more of.

It’s that much older, too. I mean, I’m no longer 7, and the house is now more like 160 years old.

Of late, I’m realizing that I really can’t take care of it. A few weeks ago, I had to call an electrician because of some issues.

“It needs major work,” he told me. “It’ll be expensive.”

Ugh.

I was the one who took care of our parents in the final years. I believe the grief process is easier for those who have been closest to a person’s demise through aging.

What’s true with people may also be true with houses.

I love this house. I can’t even tell you how much I love this house.

But it’s time to step away.