Remembering My Childhood Home

The reality of my mother's death didn't really sink in until I saw the Remax Realty property sign on the lawn of my childhood home in last August.  I knew selling the white-sided ranch would make me cry for days and even weeks.  I felt so safe and comfortable amidst the pillows and fluff in my old bedroom when I visited my mother in Central New York. Now, my visits will either be cut down to a few hours or require that I wake up to the sound of cars and trucks passing my hotel on the boulevard.

I sat in the house alone Thanksgiving morning, remembering the buzz and laughter that came from the kitchen on Christmas Eve. The 8 x 10" room would be taken over by a large oblong table laden with several fish dishes, a large antipasto, my father's spaghetti with anchovy sauce, Aunt Sonja's macaroni and cheese, and a tray piled with my mother's Christmas cookies--chocolate and cherry bon bons, pecan meltaways, soft Italians, sugar candy canes, and many more.

I also remember the sight of my father standing in a trench that he dug to extend the back patio as my mother cooked and baked to Simon and Garfunkel tunes.

The house sold at the height of the Christmas season and I stressed about having to empty the contents of it by January 15. I brought back carloads of vestiges of the past--including mom's World War II-era Homer Laughlin china, myriad doylys, photo albums, and recipes. I also took the Oneida Silver and other things I didn't need for fear that I would lose them forever to the estate sale crowd. 

Selling my childhood home has led me to a greater appreciation for the sweet snapshots of time -- my husband teasing our eight-year-old cat and talking to the canary.  Our apartment, which looks like a Pier One showcase, buzzes with friends and well-wishers during our annual holiday party and provides moments of solitude on lazy Sunday afternoons. The living room fills with light from the east that fades beautifully over an ornate, gray church steeple in the west.  One door closes, another opens.  And that makes me smile.

My Midlife Wedding

When I was about to re-marry a few years ago, I made a vow to myself to keep it simple. My husband-to-be shared my sentiments.  At midlife, we didn't want to go $15,000 in the hole so that we could have ice sculptures and Steak au Poivre for dinner.  We just wanted to share our special moments with family and a few close friends.

Planning the wedding was the easy part. In fact, I worried more about having enough energy to get to the altar while my husband wondered how we were going to cram two households worth of “stuff” under one roof.

I didn’t miss all the “frou-frou” and I think that our guests were relieved that they didn't have to do the "chicken dance" or watch a middle-aged man take a garter off my leg.  In forty-something years of living on planet earth, I learned about the perils of perfectionism and made a conscious choice to avoid the drama that goes along with it.