Home Visit

Home for me will always be those drafty walls of the rambling 1759 colonial in Norwich, Connecticut.  It is where my life began, where I played with life-long friends, and where I grew up with the boy who became my husband. It is a simple yellow house that contains more memories than any photo book can hold.

 

When I go home to visit my parents I know that my house will look the same today as it did when I left 25 years ago. The floorboards still creak out a welcome and baskets my Mom has made throughout the years hang from low beams scraping the heads of anyone taller than 6 feet.  

 

In my childhood bedroom many of my toys remain for my nieces and nephew to play.  The stencil I loved so much as a little girl still graces the walls.  I remember the summer my mother painted each simple stroke, patiently, precisely, until the room was ringed to match the quilt she and her quilting bee friends just finished for me. 

 

I am one of the lucky few who can still visit my childhood any time I want with a simple flight from Texas.  Where others have photos and stories, I have the real thing to touch.  I can take my own daughter into the time warp of what my childhood looked like.  She can look out my window and see the house where her Dad grew up, and we can walk the memories her Dad and I had as kids. I can take her to the old graveyard where the hand of Bela Peck still rests atop his sea scroll stone. She can understand the artistic influences of her grandparents and marvel at the one room school house next door. 

 

I treasure these trips home.  I can't imagine life without this house.  My greatest hope is that my daughter will be able to return here 25 years down the road and touch her own childhood memories of this grand old place.

 

LOVE  &  HOME VISITS