They say you can’t go home again. Our family still owns and rents my childhood home. During the past thirty years, I’ve visited about three times and had an opportunity to roam the rooms again this week. It still amazes me how small everything looks compared to how I thought of it as a child.
This is me in our kitchen at around age 6.
While touring my former home, I recalled the places where our furniture sat, where my chalkboard stood when I played school, the heating vent I huddled beside after an afternoon of playing in the snow, and the dining room alcove where I played receptionist, taking phone messages for the family. I guess I had an active imagination, and so does this guy:
It's funny how we see things as adults compared to when we were children. This week, I saw that the flooring, paint, and wallpaper I grew up with had disappeared, but the fireplace, iron railing, and built-in kitchen counter remained. My childhood house will never look exactly like my old home, but my feelings about it are the same. When you think of your home, what comes to mind?