Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which seek thru’ the world, is ne’er met elsewhere.
The robin in its nest, the fox in its den, the wren in its little house, the bear in its cave, the squirrel in its leafy bower, the bee in its hive . . . and the human being . . . All creatures, great and small, seek a place of safety and shelter from the weather and the world outside.
When I was a girl everyone knew the above song that’s nearly 200 years old. Its composer understood that a home is more than just a collection of boards and bricks. I have gathered insights from personal experience, observation and many years as a Realtor. The old adage that home is where the heart is true. Anyone who has ever been homesick understands this. Sometimes when people leave their homes the grief of that loss is as poignant as the death of a loved one.
It is said that a man’s home is his castle. Our homes are the one place where we can be in charge and independent. A home is the repository of cherished possessions that we collect over the years and expresses our creativity. For people of modest means, its sale brings the most money they’ve ever had at one time.
A beloved home is a cocoon spun around memories. I remember exactly every room in the Knightstown house at Cary and Franklin where I grew up. Ditto for the house on Ritter Ave. that Bill and I bought early in our marriage. The first home that one owns represents dreams. Ritter Ave. was a white elephant that we exhausted ourselves restoring and maintaining. Sometimes we yelled at each other during those projects. However, it remains a lovable house. The people who bought it from us many years ago are still there.
This was the home to which our dear mothers came for Christmas and where we had Halloween parties for Vicki in the attic. I invited a dozen close friends to come for brunch followed by a surprise fiftieth birthday party for Bill to which I invited 75 people. The sewer backed up in the basement two days before, and I talked our plumber into coming anyway even though I had spent all the money that I’d saved up on the party.
This was the home to which we took one small child and from which we buried another. When we sold it I left not only our home, but our Irvington neighborhood, and I cried at the closing. “Oh dear,” I wailed. “You said I could take my mother’s bloodroot, and it’s died down, and I can’t find it.” Several years later I went back in the spring, and the owner gave me a start of it.
Thus, I understood perfectly when a real estate client cried after signing the listing contract. “Oh, oh, oh,” she sobbed. “My grandmother’s rose is out back.” “Don’t worry,” I replied. “We’ll exclude it from the listing so you can take it.” I saw many people tear up at the closing of their homes even though they were moving on to a desired new one. Sometimes sons would excuse themselves during the closing on their deceased mothers’ homes. I knew that they were going outside to cry.
When I look out the window of our Warren Park home while I type this I see several trees that Bill planted. This is where grandboys came to visit when they were young. It is where Bill and I have grown old together. Home is wherever Bill is. However, this house will never hold the place in my heart that my childhood home and the one on Ritter have. wclarke@comcast.net