The House that Build Me - A Party

Last week Leigh over at Bloggeritaville posted the Miranda Lambert song "The house that Built Me" and I let her know how much that song touches me everytime I hear it.  It reminds me of my Grandmother's house, the place I called home. I would have loved to post pictures, but my scanner is not cooperating (I spent two hours digging through old photos!), sorry.  The picture above (my MIL made this for me after my telling of many stories) says it all for me;

"I remember the softness and charm of the wide shady street, the giant tree that hung heavy with the heat of August. And in the winter the warm contentment. I love remembering the simple pleasures of my Grandmother's house.

When I was a child, Momma moved around a lot, I didn't understand it then, but I do now. She was single a young mom, who was trying to find a place to call Home for us.  We lived in some pertty neat places and some not so neat. But through all the places we lived, I spent the majority of my childhood at Gramma's.  While mom worked, Gramma took care of me, my aunts and uncles became brothers and sisters, my Grandfather became my Papa. The house became the only place I felt like I belonged...my safe haven. The big apple tree in the middle of the back yard was my place to go on adventures, the basement always scared m except the time my Great-Gramma was staying in the newly converted room,, the attic where I felt strangely comfortable, the breakfast room where everyone gathered on a hot summer day because it was close to the pool.  The registers that pumped warm air into the cold creaky  house on a winter morning, watching my gramma's night gown billow up and make her look like a pillow. The side of the house that often was my only partner when I needed to practice catching "pop-flys'. The street loaded with kids playing kick the can or touch football - 'CAR!" was a familiar phrase used often on that street.  The lonley whistle of a  train, from the track down the street, that I never realized there was a wrong side to. And of course the 150 year old Sycamore tree that stood at attention in the front yard as if protecting the home and family against all odds. When I was  about 11, my Gramma and Papa converted the upstairs into an apartment for my mom, brother and me, I was home. I had a room in the house to call my own, Momma painted it pepto bismol pink (at my pleading) and made that once hall of bedrooms into a home of her own. Most of my great childhood memories, halloweens, summers, christmas' family get togethers, happened in that house and everytime I pull up to that front yard I expect the screen door to open and my gramma to perch herself on the first step of that porch, coffee and cigarette in hand, ready to water her flowers and plotting to squirt the little girl who keeps running past her hoping she will. Gramma and Papa have passed, but the house, which was built for my Great Great, is still in the family...it is not the same house as when I was growing up - but I remember my Papa was always making changes at my Grammas request, so I think she and he would be pleased to know that it is lovingly being "improved" just like when it was their home.  Now that I am out here in California and my Grandmother's house is in Ohio, I don't get to see it all the time but I am grateful that when I go to visit I can still go in and touch the banister I used to slide down, smell the old attic and get scared in the basement. I am grateful to have called that old house, filled with so much love, simple pleasures and memories, home.

Please be sure to check out the other bloggers talking about the song over at Leigh's - I am off to go Salen' (yard sales) - TaTa for now!