Feels Like Home

    My mother-in-law Nellie sold her house recently and turned in the keys to the realtor yesterday. As I drove past the empty dwelling a few moments ago, I reflected on the life that had been lived there for close to thirty years. And I couldn’t help but commiserate about similar undertakings of my own.

    I’ve always been a firm believer that homes hold on to memories.  When Tim and I purchased our first home in Ontario, I gathered as much information as I could from the neighbours about the previous owners. Mind you, this was the pre-Facebook 2002 era. I learned about the cancer-stricken woman who had lovingly tended the flowerbeds which were either killed off by me or sodded over by Tim to make way a swing set and kiddie pool. When we left Fergus to make our way to the Big Land, a former student’s mother bought our Argyll Street house.  If she were a believer in a home’s ability to remember, she would have felt many emotions. Through the good times and bad times and every moment in between, there was love. Between the raised voices, laughter, tears, hushed tones, and conversations, there was a definite subtext that captured who we were as a family and who we continue to be.

    By now you’re probably trying to figure out how this all connects. See, 50 Baltimore is a place that felt like home to me from the first time I visited with Tim and nearly four-month-old Emily back in June 2002. Yes, I had been told stories about my in-laws’ time there. I went on to gather as much information about the house’s history as I could as we sat and chatted over tea or played cards. I’ve always felt incredibly blessed that I was so lovingly welcomed into the Pittman unit. Another visit in 2005 solidified those feelings when we visited for my sister-in-law Kim’s wedding with a toddler and a barely one-year-old child in tow. 

    In 2007, a summer visit turned into a move to Wabush. The place Tim had spent a number of his formative years became home for him again while we house hunted to continue our new adventure in the Big Land. It couldn’t have been easy for Nellie and Jim to not only welcome back their grown son and his family let alone Ester the pot-bellied piglet! There we remained for three months. It’s a place that will always be a part of me.

    A move to Gilbert Ave had me similarly question the neighbours as I had in previous neighbourhoods regarding the former owners. I heard a tale about the quirky woman who had once left an iron plugged in and nearly burned the place down. I learned a little about the quiet social worker who inhabited the house, which had four bedrooms, on her own. When we had our house built on Snow’s Drive, there were no neighbours to question. All memories would be up to us. And as the narrative that is being written here continues to unfold, a tale with every emotion there is to feel will continue to be present. And the current soundtrack also features various music genres, a slightly out-of-tune piano, and the snuffles and snorts of two slightly obese pugs.

    There have been a few times in my life when I have had the opportunity to wander through empty homes that my family and I had breathed life in. The feeling is palpable. Silence echoing through the empty rooms and hallways where love, laughter, sadness, and instances of anger once resided are impossible to forget. 

    Though Nellie’s home is no longer in the family in the physical sense, I know the memories will linger. And I understand full well how bittersweet they are. A quotation I read recently echoes the sentiment perfectly: “Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.” Where the smell of homemade bread wafts through the air, turkey dinners are lovingly prepared, and cups of tea are poured is where you’ll find her. And to be wrapped in one of Nellie’s hugs feels like home to me.