Jill's Journal: Memories of home
As I finished vacuuming the dining room at my mother’s house on Saturday, I felt both a sense of relief and also a sense of sadness. It would be, after all, the very last time I’d push a vacuum across the olive-colored carpet in this house, the place where my mom and dad made a life for themselves since the ‘80s.
This wasn’t the home that I grew up in, yet, it’s beenthe place I’ve called ‘home’ ever since mom and dad moved there. I still find myself saying, ‘I’m going home this weekend.’ And then I find myself correcting myself, ‘I’m going to St. James this weekend.’
It is home, yet, it isn’t.
While I will always be connected to St. James, a town our family moved to in 1966, with both of my parents now gone, it just doesn’t feel like ‘home’ anymore.
St. James is the place where I attended kindergarten through the 12th grade. It’s the place where I made friends for a lifetime, held my first job, received my first kiss, earned my license to drive, brought home a date to our family Thanksgiving, among a sea of other monumental moments in this girls’ life.
Later this week, I’ll be sitting across the table at a lawyer’s office in St. James with the soon-to-be new owners of 703 Fourth Street North. I’m not sure what emotions will stir inside me as I hand over the keys to the place I’ve considered ‘home’ for a good portion of my adult life.
But it’s the next step we must take in this process we call ‘life.’
Clearing out mom’s home has been a job, a big, big job that didn’t get done without moments of reflection, moments of emotions, moments of memories. As my brother and I sorted through boxes and boxes of photos, we came across an envelope of letters that his first-grade pals wrote to him when we moved from LeSueur to St. James.
We found our report cards. As it turns out, I was an “above-average” student, who apparently had the gift for gab. My high school home ec teacher may have made mention of my ability to “socialize” with my friends when I shouldn’t have been “socializing” with my friends.
We came across oodles of photos of people that we don’t know, and for that matter, will likely never know who they were. Relatives? Friends of the family?
The answers to those questions are no longer with us.
In the process of clearing out a lifetime of stuff, I did my best to keep emotions out of my decision to toss, keep or donate. We tossed a lot. We donated a lot. And, as one may guess, I kept a lot.
My garage is now lined with boxes filled with things that I just didn’t have the heart to part with. Portions of my home look as though I’m moving in or moving out.
I’m confident there will come a day when I’m ready to toss, donate or keep once again. And if not, there will come a day when my nephews and their families will be making those same decisions. I’m guessing, “toss” will have the upper edge.
