What makes a house a home?
There is a brick two story duplex, on a slightly sloped corner, located in a special place in my heart. I hear the current owners are planning on tearing out the wrought iron gate that wraps around the garden to replace it with something a bit more modern. The same gate that held the morning glories, fast and true, that my grandmother had planted. I was fascinated every day to see that they were open in all of their glory, and by dusk when mom called us in for supper they had already started to tuck themselves in for the night. How in the world did they know to do that? I wondered to myself. It still fascinates me. I have tried growing morning glories as an adult, and for some reason they never grew as robustly as those that wrapped themselves around my childhood garden gate.
To say I'm disappointed that these new owners want to take out the gate is an understatement.
I recall sitting on the wrought iron benches under the arbor grapevine, painted a glossy green by my grandfather's skilled hands, feeling like I'm like in my own little safe haven.
The house certainly wasn't grand in any way, this two-story brick duplex, but to me it was our castle. Nobody else on the block had such a gate, not to mention the benches which were made in the same design. It was where I sat with my friends enjoying our fudgscicles every afternoon the Good Humor man made his rounds. It was where I sat when I was sick, and my mom insisted that I get some fresh air to help "cure" me. I'm not so sure how fresh the air was on this New York City block, but perhaps she knew the aromas from the garden would somehow make me feel better. Moms know these kinds of things.
To this day, the scent of hyacinths brings me back to that city corner, where they grew every s
pring all lined up in a row. My grandmother had carefully planted the bulbs along the base of the gate, and when in bloom the scent wrapped around me as I would fly by on my bike. I couldn't understand why these sweet smelling flowers didn't last for months, and I still don't quite understand why. Now, every spring when I see Easter flowers for sale I am reminded of my grandmother's hyacinths and that New York City corner.
There was a high-rise building across the street from us, towering over our little two-story brick duplex house. The building had a beautiful green lawn, speckled with dandelions -- and it beckoned to us to run and play on it. Only we couldn't, because it was surrounded by a chain-link fence. This beautiful lawn was only for show.
I would sit on my benches across the street, and yearn to go lay on that cool green grass for just a moment or two. I guess "the grass is always greener" feelings do start at a young age. That's okay though, because for all of it's beauty, the lawn was untouchable - yet my flowers in the garden were within hand's reach for picking and inhaling their aromas. My grapes, growing in this New York City garden, were just an arms' stretch above my head as I stood precariously on my tippytoes on my benches.
.... And my morning glories greeted me each and every day.
Sometimes what makes a house a home, isn't what you find within those brick walls. It's what greets you when you step outside into the world, and the first thing that welcomes you back upon your return.
~Jeannie Kontis
Read or enter in other What Makes a House a Home entries here: What Makes a House a Home
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