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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The old house, built in 1895, was the best of weathered antiques having hugged North Rogers Street from days of horses to days of horse-powered engines, and now to electric cars. As the story goes, my grandfather purchased the old house shortly after returning from WWI. He added ‘indoor’ plumbing, a garage, a carport, remodeled the inside, and replaced the roof—a roof that protected the house and its inhabitants and would do so for many-a-year to come. Granddad moved his wife and four children into the old house, and it was the place my mother, uncles, and aunt grew up, calling it ‘home.’ Later, my cousins, brothers, and I spent many joyful days inside the old house. It was my second ‘home,’ and the calling of the years somehow takes me there. I can remember each room as far back as my memory goes. I can touch them, feel the texture on the walls, smell the scent of Granny’s perfume, and hear Granddad shuffling across the creaking wooden floors. In my daydreams, I’m once again inside the old house where a kaleidoscope of memories greets me—photographs adorn the walls, each of them conjuring the emotions of those moments long-since passed. Though the exterior of the house has suffered many winters and storm seasons, the old wooden floor has been sheltered inside. The floor has been shaped by the soles of our family—of generations living and loving there. It’s as if the house holds onto happy memories in its floorboards and walls, for inside we were safe and warm even on cold, wintry days. Holidays brought family gatherings and a time when the old house was filled with children romping about, holiday shenanigans, abundant laughter, warm drinks, and loads of holiday goodies. I can see a plate of gingerbread cookies resting on Granny’s dining room table. The old table, like the old house, aged with us, becoming more distinct with age. It’s surface now has the face of a beloved old man, as if all those lines were his well-earned wrinkles. When summertime arrived, the backyard was converted to a massive garden that reaped a bountiful harvest—tomatoes, squash, okra, snap peas, and cucumbers picked at just the right time for making crispy bread and butter pickles, Granddad’s favorite. So many precious memories live and breathe inside that old house. I pause from reminiscing, wishing I could somehow roll back the clock, but I can’t. Apparently, I've been the victim of getting older—something that happens to all of us at one point or another. My ‘getting older’ has been going on for quite some time now and without my knowing it! But getting old is sweeter because reminiscing turns back the hands of time. Suddenly, I’m seven again dwelling in the old house enjoying the people with whom memories were made. how many laughs and how many tears have marked the the years unfolding the floorboard creaks and tells a story of many Christmas holidays here in the kitchen you'll find stories left behind open the cupboard once inside you'll find stained and old recipe cards written with such care sweet memories live forever inside these walls memories do that within these old walls do ghosts hide, keeping secrets-- tales that weren't told of ghosts I don't know I sense their silent presence begging me 'come home'
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