Where Home is... blog 4

The painting, "Ryder's House" by Edward Hopper, has a cold, uninviting feel to it. The house that is painted has no doors that can be seen and no driveway leading up to it. The grass along around the house is long and unkempt, telling me that no one even tries to trim it. It brings to my mind the difference between a house and a home. This building that is depicted is a house because it has not been lived in or loved by anyone. A home is where you can feel at ease, feel welcomed, or feel cared about. To quote an old saying, "Home is where the heart is."
Thinking about the differences between what makes a home and what makes a house has me thinking of my childhood home. It is an old house in a small town. It has been in this small town since the town's been founded. The house has white siding that is trying to fall off and green shutters that are now brown from neglect. Looking from the side street you see the backyard and the garage. Scanning the backyard you can see a huge elm tree that would take three full people to wrap around its trunk. You would also see a big rose bush that will be full of large red roses in the summer. As you continue to look you see a one car garage that is the same color as the house with two large green doors that are man gates. The doors can stand up to anything, even cars running through them; they are fully functional but are ugly as sin. You can see the back door that leads into the kitchen. Everyone that knows my family walks in through the back door never the front door. Going inside you see where my family always seemed to center. When I walk into that room now and breathe in deep, I smell all the old scents and hear all the laughter from the giant family of six that used to dwell there.
Just thinking of my dad’s house makes me very nostalgic. I can only really think of all the Christmas mornings where we sat at the top of the stairs, waiting for mom and dad to wake up, trying to see our presents. I remember having to share a room with my siblings because there just wasn’t quite enough room for us all. I remember the fights my brother and I got into over nothing. I remember chasing the panther of a cat and then being chased by him in return. I remember all of this so clearly and I long for the past and for simpler times. I long for when my parents weren’t separated, when my brother wasn’t over in Japan, and when I could just be carefree. But then I look around me now and I realize that I don’t need those things. I now have a place I call home with MY family, and I am going to start those memories with them.