home

When my grandmother died, I remember my dad kept her old, worn out sneakers. Even as a young girl, I never questioned why he would do that. Looking at those shoes, even I saw her. They represented something to him, something more than what they were. I saw it, too. I suppose I come by it honestly...this habit of attaching sentimental importance to objects with no intrinsic value.

In my recent visits to my parents house, I have found myself looking around nostalgically, discovering with new eyes those things that capture memories for me...ordinary objects holding extraordinary worth.

It's the silver pot with black handles and copper bottom that she cooks the potatoes in. It is the upright piano they surprised me with in the 4th grade because my teacher told them that my octave and a half keyboard (that I could easily tuck under my arm) was too small.
It is my dad's brown office crammed full with inspired ideas and good intentions...with the rows of presidential biographies and stacks of un-hung picture frames lining the walls. It's the way her towels smell straight from the dryer. It's the white pillow cases with pink flowers. It's the VCR that is 20 years old and, while it still works, is always flashing a digital, green 12:00 because Mom isn't quite sure how to set it. And the smell of Pine-sol, Comet and lemon fresh Dawn will forever remind me of her and home and, for reasons I can't explain, peace.

And so I wonder what will it be for my children? What memories are they even now attaching to the stuff of our house and the cleaning products I choose to use?

There is a tree that stands tall in our front yard. In the summer, it nearly hides the house from the street and I have threatened more than once to have it removed. But it is a beautiful tree, especially this time of year. Here is a glimpse of it's yellowing leaves as seen through their bedroom window.Will this tree be a memory for them? Maybe. It would be great if it were the apron I wore while making cookies every afternoon or the Bible on my bedside table. I'm sure not...certainly it will be something more like the piles of laundry they had to step over every time they came into my bedroom. Regardless of what will come to represent home to them, the most important thing to me is that they know that they have a place where they belong.

Even if the thing that reminds them of that is a pair of my old, worn out sneakers.