Visiting The House Where I Grew Up

How many people can say that at age 50, they spend the weekend in the house where they grew up? Often I think about how lucky I am to have to parents who have been happily married for 56 years and still live in the comfortable old Colonial house they bought in 1960.

This house has been modified and added to, more comfortable over the ages, but it’s still the same house looking out at the barn where I lived for a summer as a teenager. Next door the little house is gone, replaced by a parking lot for a new giant four-family monstrosity. Some of the trees I used to climb as a youth have been cut down, others I can still recall. Where they once had a cold screened porch, they now have a comfy long dining room with a long farm table that seats about 10. It’s a treat to get to come down here and have my three sisters come and enjoy dinner at this big table. Last night I shot some videos of my funny younger sister telling a long story.

My dad thanked me for coming down and visiting them during the week. I explained that since Christmas has become a time with my children and grandchildren, it made more sense to do a post-holiday visit…and besides, I like being a part of their weekday lives. Dad goes off to read to the blind this morning, Valerie has a doctor’s appointment and errands to run. Her regular routine today would be her volunteering at Planned Parenthood. We’ll meet up for lunch, a chance to catch up one-on-one. The way fathers and sons need to do once in a while to keep in touch.