My sisters, my mom and I went to see the home where my four sisters and I were raised, in Goldsboro, North Carolina. It is a vintage home, on the historic register and it is a beautiful home of rock, stucco, cedar and oak.
On the interior it has solid brass doorknobs, push lighting, transoms and high ceilings with beautiful moldings. The new owners, friends of ours, have done an incredible job bringing this home back to a place of beauty and elegance. And as I walked up the front steps, I remember my dad, my mom, years ago, and our family when we lived there…
As we walked through it, I remembered my dad writing a story about HIS childhood home, and how each table was a place where there was a “cliff” for his cowboys and indians to fall off of, or a chair which served as a “mountain” for the soldiers to climb.
Upstairs, there was the staircase where my sisters and I threw tinsel down on the Christmas tree every year. Upstairs there was the roof where my youngest sister Tina went sleepwalking after climbing out the window, and my dad had to coax her back inside without waking her up.
In their mermaid bedroom, there was the fireplace where my sister Andy used her cheer-leading megaphone to catch the bat that had flown in, screaming and laughing. In the back entry mud room, there was the window that my mom would look out of to see when dad was coming home.
Outside, there was the place in the yard where I fell out of a tree and hit my head on the side of my eye, where I still have a small scar. And beside that place was the ivy where my sister Heidi and I had forts Rocksville and Fort Camelot.
And seeing the main bedroom upstairs, there was my sister Stephs room, right next to mine, and we would go to sleep with the stars shining out of our large wavy-paned windows.
Every room had a story of our childhood, vivid memories, with the past as permanent and true as the present. Each of us, my sisters, my mom and I, have a collection of stories, that will be held and treasured in our hearts, because of the love and innocence that was maintained in that home. We were all so grateful to be able to visit it, and meet the new owners.
My dad wrote a poem to us one Christmas about how this home would be restored, and my mom did her part back when we lived there, and now the new owners are doing their part.
Home really is where the heart is, and when there is a home full of beauty and memories, there is childhoodville. I LOVE childhoodville.