My parents just sold the farm in Pennsylvania on which both my father, grandfather, and I grew up. It is a bittersweet event. Sweet in that my parents are closer to me in their new home, and that the new home remarkably feels like "home." Bitter in that the selling of the farm is the end of a legacy, my last real connection to my hometown, and simply the loss of my home. I may never see it again.
Growing up, my and most everyone's favorite part of our home was the front porch swing. Our 1800s farmhouse had a large front porch with three open picture windows in the section of the porch that juts out over the old apple cellar. This is where my mom's heavy wooden swing hung, in perfect position to take in the view. In the spring, you could sit on the swing and watch the newborn calves try out their new legs and then scamper about the field across the road. In the summer, you could watch a storm and then the rushing creek that ran through that same field. While sitting in that swing, it was hard to remember that the rest of the world was not so peaceful and content. It was a place isolated from all others.
The swing was also a place for music. I cannot imagine how many evenings we spent sitting in the swing, with my mom singing to us, or my mom, brother, and I singing together. Occasionally Daddy would even join in. I can so clearly hear my mom singing "Beautiful Baby" and "Baby Face" to me, just as she does to my newborn son now.
The swing was also a place for family. The day before my wedding, the swing and entire porch were dotted with family from all over the Eastern US. My bridal shower took place on that porch. And the last time I saw my grandfather he was sitting on that swing. In the last picture I have of him, he is sitting on the swing talking to my son.
My mom assures me that the swing is now on the front porch of her new home, with a view at least as good. But I know I wouldn't get the same feeling of contentment as I did sitting in the swing at the farmhouse -at home. Last week, I found a new front porch swing, and realized I've been at home for awhile. My new swing just happens to be in the form of an anti-gravity chaise recliner on the deck of my townhome.
My husband and I have owned our townhome for almost 5 years. We never expected to be here this long, but with the current real estate market and having 2 children in that time, moving seems a distant thing. Two years ago, I was desperate to get out of the house and the region. The neighborhood was changing, I had few true friends in the area, and I hated the high price of living "near" Washington, DC. In another place, I could have a large single family home with a big yard. My walls would be my own and not attached to people I didn't know. Then things changed. New families with young children moved into the neighborhood. Through them we met other neighbors who had been there all along, and we have established a rare thing for this transient area - an actual "neighborhood" where people watch one another's children, run next door to borrow paper bags or ingredients for dinner, and gather together regularly to play games.
I know that one day, this too will change. Our growing families will find bigger homes in other neighborhoods. Someone's job will get transferred, and the quality of the neighborhood and homes will decline. However, sitting on my recliner last week, praying, watching approximately 3 stars, and singing in the summer night, I realized that "home" is not where your swing hangs, but the place where you find contentment. And right now for me, that is not on a swing in rural Pennsylvania or in some single family home in my dreams. It is on a chair on the deck of my townhouse in suburban Virginia, where I can see my living room window glowing and hear my sons playing with my husband (and the Basset Hound who is howling along with me).
Growing up, my and most everyone's favorite part of our home was the front porch swing. Our 1800s farmhouse had a large front porch with three open picture windows in the section of the porch that juts out over the old apple cellar. This is where my mom's heavy wooden swing hung, in perfect position to take in the view. In the spring, you could sit on the swing and watch the newborn calves try out their new legs and then scamper about the field across the road. In the summer, you could watch a storm and then the rushing creek that ran through that same field. While sitting in that swing, it was hard to remember that the rest of the world was not so peaceful and content. It was a place isolated from all others.
The swing was also a place for music. I cannot imagine how many evenings we spent sitting in the swing, with my mom singing to us, or my mom, brother, and I singing together. Occasionally Daddy would even join in. I can so clearly hear my mom singing "Beautiful Baby" and "Baby Face" to me, just as she does to my newborn son now.
The swing was also a place for family. The day before my wedding, the swing and entire porch were dotted with family from all over the Eastern US. My bridal shower took place on that porch. And the last time I saw my grandfather he was sitting on that swing. In the last picture I have of him, he is sitting on the swing talking to my son.
My mom assures me that the swing is now on the front porch of her new home, with a view at least as good. But I know I wouldn't get the same feeling of contentment as I did sitting in the swing at the farmhouse -at home. Last week, I found a new front porch swing, and realized I've been at home for awhile. My new swing just happens to be in the form of an anti-gravity chaise recliner on the deck of my townhome.
My husband and I have owned our townhome for almost 5 years. We never expected to be here this long, but with the current real estate market and having 2 children in that time, moving seems a distant thing. Two years ago, I was desperate to get out of the house and the region. The neighborhood was changing, I had few true friends in the area, and I hated the high price of living "near" Washington, DC. In another place, I could have a large single family home with a big yard. My walls would be my own and not attached to people I didn't know. Then things changed. New families with young children moved into the neighborhood. Through them we met other neighbors who had been there all along, and we have established a rare thing for this transient area - an actual "neighborhood" where people watch one another's children, run next door to borrow paper bags or ingredients for dinner, and gather together regularly to play games.
I know that one day, this too will change. Our growing families will find bigger homes in other neighborhoods. Someone's job will get transferred, and the quality of the neighborhood and homes will decline. However, sitting on my recliner last week, praying, watching approximately 3 stars, and singing in the summer night, I realized that "home" is not where your swing hangs, but the place where you find contentment. And right now for me, that is not on a swing in rural Pennsylvania or in some single family home in my dreams. It is on a chair on the deck of my townhouse in suburban Virginia, where I can see my living room window glowing and hear my sons playing with my husband (and the Basset Hound who is howling along with me).
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