My parents have been married for 50 years. That’s quite an
accomplishment in any day and age. To have both made it to their seventies
healthy and still going strong in their relationship is something to be
celebrated.
They hosted an anniversary party last weekend for themselves at the house
they have lived in for forty-nine years. Until I was married myself, it was the
only home I had ever known except for a smattering of college dormitory rooms.
At one time it was a small, simple home with only two bedrooms and one bathroom
in the basement.
 |
| Shutterstock.com photo |
My older sister and I were housed in the attic; though we
mostly slept in the living room since the attic was too warm in the summer and
too cold in the winter. When I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night,
I would wake her and make her walk me down the two flights of stairs to the
spider-filled basement. At almost 50 years old, she still teases me about it.
There was barely enough room in the kitchen for my mom to
cook. When not in use, our table was against the wall. When pulled out, she couldn't open the oven.
There was only one room for all five of us to gather. I
don’t remember any of us minding; that is, until teenage privacy kicked into
gear. By the time my brother and sister had moved out and moved on, my parents
had some money saved to build extra rooms onto the house. They made our living
room into a dining room, remodeled the basement, and added on an extra living
space and bathroom just in time for me to leave for college.
We all still gather there in that tiny home; only now instead
of five of us, there are seventeen – even more if the grandkids bring special
friends. For the past eleven seasons of Christmases and Easters, I have been
chasing my own small children in that home, pulling out toys and crayons and
coloring books that I used as a child. My brother, sister, and I often comment
about how “Mom is still using the same holder for Dad’s toothpicks,” the little
ceramic donkey with the basket where its back should be.
We talk about childhood memories – how on hot summer nights we used to “make a raft” on the living room floor, a bed of blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals on which we could sleep. We talk about the one rotary telephone we used to have, its cord stretched to three times its length in the user’s attempt to find some place for a private conversation in our tiny non-private home.
I have nothing but happy memories there. I loved my house
until I got into high school and realized that other people lived in big homes
where they could have their own bedrooms and possibly even their own bathrooms.
Other people had rec rooms in the basement where they could host slumber
parties and hang out with friends. They had kitchens big enough for everyone to
have a meal without bumping into one another. I never knew what I was missing
until I saw what others had.
Before my parents’ anniversary party, I helped my mother
clean and prepare for guests. She gave me the simple task of dusting. As I went
about the house with the dust rag, moving nick-knacks and tchotchkes, I began
to see my childhood home with new eyes.
I picked up the delicate little donkey that held my father’s
toothpicks and smiled. I unearthed some of my favorite puzzles and games from
the back of the basement closet with the delight of a seven-year-old child (I
knew I had more dusting to do, but I really
wanted to put that Happy Days
puzzle together again). I lovingly dusted around our entire collection of Little House on the Prairie books and
tried to remember just how many times I read each of them.
It took me until I was an adult with my own children to
realize what a good life I had growing up. Though it was simple, we never
wanted for anything. We never had any less than we needed or any more than we
wanted. And today, I appreciate it all. I often wonder, in this world of excess
we are living today, if my boys will appreciate everything they have. Probably
not until they are in their forties
and helping me clean my house.
By the time we were done, my parents’ house was as neat as a
pin and ready for guests to arrive. “It
looks junky, doesn't it?” my mom remarked as we stood back to survey our work.
“No,” I replied, “it looks like you have had fifty years’
worth of a very good life here.”
 |
| My wonderful parents. A wonderful 50 years. |
