Home by Grace McDonough

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My house is as old as me. Kinda. It's actually a few months older. My parents were really young when they got married, mom was 21, dad was 25. I think that their age was partially the reason why they moved around a bunch after they got married. Maybe trying to deflect the fact that they were so young and already "settling down." In fact, my dad, being the tech guy he is, set up all our personal emails with "@movinalot" in honor of our status as frequent movers (very cute but always awkward when I'm buying something and have to spell out my email address to make sure they don't accidentally add a g to "movin"). It's weird, though, because I never knew that life. My mom, dad, brother, and sister shacked up in a hotel for a couple of months while our home in Sparta, NJ was being assembled, right next to the Sterling Hill Mining Museum. A few tapes from my pa's old camcorder documented my house in the building process. A short few months after move-in day, I was born! However, my parents didn't have the... foresight... to know that they would be having another child when they were going over how many bedrooms would be in the house. And that is why my room is a closet! It's actually fairly roomy, but it was never supposed to be a bedroom.

Fast forward to now, I'm sixteen, and the power has gone out in my house for real for the first time. That's not exactly true, but growing up, outages lasted at most an hour, because living on top of a hill means power lines underground. They were always so fun for me. It meant that my siblings would be forced to interact with me meaningfully. Now I know that power outages suck. As I'm typing this on my couch, next to a blazing fire that my mom and I struggled to ignite since my dad is having a lovely work-related trip in San Francisco, I'm watching the purple creep up my fingernails. It is so cold. Not chillingly, like when you're outside and the wind is whipping so hard that it burns your cheeks raw, but indescribably cold. No matter how much I bundle, how much closer I get to the fire, how many foot warmers I stick between the three pairs of socks on my feet, the cold is somehow still creeping in. My head is burning the way it does when I huff sharpie markers and the joints of my fingers are jolting involuntarily. But these past 30+ hours have been eye-opening. I look around my dead house. There is no happy-hum from the central heating. The dish-washer does not buzz angrily when it's done. The mice in my attic aren't scampering anymore. I guess I've come to realize that your home is what you make it, not the shell itself, and right now it's our shelter. Just a couple nights ago, it was bustling with life as my four young cousins physically assaulted each other after Thanksgiving dinner. And when we ate our dinner by candlelight tonight, (chips and salsa because everything in the fridge had to go and every possible road leading away from my house is impassible) it was a fun mother-daughter bonding experience. I should probably be getting to the point now. In any case, that essay we read, "Homeless" by Anna Quindlan, really hit home with me (teehee). My house has so much personality. I love its loud creaking, the way it shakes whenever something explodes down at the mine, how I can watch 4th of July fireworks from my bedroom window. But it would mean nothing without my family. Without people, a house is just a building, and with them, it's a home. Now, I'm going to pull my car out into the driveway (got my permit, losers!!!) so my mom and I can sit in it for a while to warm up.

Just a tree casually hanging on a power line outside my house

Comments

  1. AnonymousDecember 10, 2019 at 5:14 AM

    I love all the humor throughout this, and I completely agree with your sentiment that it's the people that turn a house into a home.

    ReplyDelete
  2. AnonymousDecember 10, 2019 at 4:11 PM

    That is a great story of how your house basically grew up with you. I love the humor and it's story, but the message was also great how the memories is what differentiates a house from a home.

    ReplyDelete
  3. DanielleDecember 17, 2019 at 9:53 AM

    Such great voice in this piece! Do you still live in a closet? That's a great story!

    ReplyDelete

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