The heart of a home
It was Christmas time and I was filled with nostalgia for people and things past. The holiday had rekindled in me a longing for the old homestead of my childhood; for the pleasant and happy days I spent there with my grandparents, parents and cousins, for the wonderful meals cooked to perfection on grandma’s stove, for the sauces that boiled in her cooking pot like an eternal volcano, the holiday tables filled with a bounty of family traditions and hearty meals, and how every room of the house rang with conversations and children’s laughter.
I yearned to relive those memories, to be a part of them again, to be a kid and to climb with agility the huge Pepper tree that grew with strength and grace in my grandparents’ backyard: How I would use my hands and bare feet to scurry up its rugged branches to the playhouse cradled in its bough. Inspired by these yearnings for my youth, I took a drive back to the old homestead, back to my grandparent’s venerable estate, to its many creaks, cracks and timeless charm.
Shadowed between two formidable business complexes, the old house now sat hidden from the afternoon sun. The midday’s noisy traffic sounds cushioned by the surrounding trees and overgrowth of vines and bushes.
The house’s current owners allowed the old homestead to be covered over now by dead vines, wild roses and ivy. Its eroding framework honey-combed with termites, dust spiders and dry rot. Beneath a dusty covering of earth and leaves I recognized the faded outline of my grandma’s once flourishing flower garden. In the center of the yard, as if waiting for someone to set it right again, was a tilted bird-bath.
I also could see the remnants of my childhood tree house resting high in the branches of the enduring Pepper tree, a kindly reminder of my childhood and those warm summer days that seemed to go on forever. Scrambling vines and determined wild flowers, weaved their way over broken trellises and fence posts.
Sprawling and plentiful crabgrass followed a winding course along the stepping stones. Close to the house and along its perimeter stand a row of Italian cypress trees. Their stately grandeur standing at attention as if like bastions guarding over the musty estate, bowing only to the winter winds that blow in from the north.
Hidden under years of corrosion, remnants of a stone walk- way artfully waved its way to an unhinged front door. On the porch, a long abandoned bird-house dangles from a porch beam as it rocks gently in the arms of a summer wind. Dried hollyhock stalks and dead grass dotted the gray and dismal yard.
The distant echoes and flickering evening shadows encourage my fantasies and for a moment, in my mind’s eye, the old house and garden come alive again. The fragrance of a burgeoning wild jasmine shrub breathes life into my imagination and rekindles precious memories.
I could see grandma tending her beloved snapdragons and lively periwinkles: I could see her tea roses lining up in bright perfusion along the walkway that lead to her front door. I could see again young robins and lively sparrows splashing in a symmetrical bird-bath and golden honeysuckle, jasmine and brilliant sweet peas blossoming along a newly painted white picket fence touching the air with a medley of fragrances.
I remember the tall sunflowers that glittered like small balls of sunshine bouncing gaily under a warm summer sky. I could see the white chintz curtains in grandma’s kitchen windows flapping merrily in the breeze as the aroma of sizzling bacon wafted in from her kitchen frying pans, teasing our appetites and filling our nostrils with tantalizing aroma as we played in the backyard Pepper tree Suddenly, without warning, a cold blast of wind came blowing in from the North filling me with a chill that quickly brought me back to reality.
I now saw the dilapidated old house as it actually looks today. Its rooms filled only with the sounds of creaking wood and decaying plaster. Finger marks and a smudge on doorframes and scuffmarks on hardwood floors is the only reminder that a family once lived there. Like most of the house’s original residents, my grandparents and parents are gone now. But sometimes, on a soft summer night, there are those who say they can still hear the happy sounds of a family’s whispers and giggles echoing throughout its vacant rooms. And I believe it’s true, for it is said that a house that’s known a baby’s cry and held a family’s laughter will surely never die.
10631 Vinedale Street, Sun Valley, CA 91352 - Phone (818) 767-3413 - Fax: (818) 767-1410
