A house—a home




 

 

Years ago, when I was still in my twenties, I would sometimes recall all the places I had lived that I could remember. An attic apartment in Chicago with my parents and sister, still a baby at that time. There was a two-story duplex, also in Chicago, with my mother, father, sister and grandfather, and my favorite aunt. And then there was my grandfather’s house— still in Chicago.

Each place was home. There were many happy moments, and some not so happy. But we were a family, and memories of these places were mostly good. When I was six years old, in 1947, my parents moved us to Montrose, Colorado, a small town on the Western Slope of the Continental Divide. Montrose was quite a contrast to the big city that was the hometown I had known all my life.

We had three houses in Montrose, two of them rent houses and a third one my parents bought. We lived in it from 1952 until we moved to Grants, New Mexico in 1957. We had a three-bedroom home, I graduated high school and then was off to college. And on my own. College living was different. I lived in dorm rooms and at times a couple of apartments. Instead of family there were roommates. I could never quite see these places as home, though. I graduated and went on active duty in the Air Force, with a family, living in base housing and apartments. After military service more apartments and several houses. That leads to where we now live. Our current home is a four-bedroom house in Pleasanton–our residence since 1986, and—at 33 years—it’s the place I have lived the longest. When we moved in, we were a family of seven. One son had graduated from high school and was a parttime inhabitant, but he was still one of ours.

Years passed. We had a fire in one of the bedrooms and were out of the house for a time as repairs were made. There has been a succession of pets—dogs, a few cockatiels, and some outdoor cats. Our house has also been blessed by grandchildren.

It takes more than four walls to make a home. It takes memories, and we have had plenty in three decades. Life goes on— filled with transitions. And also with memories.

WARREN DOMKE is a columnist for the Pleasanton Express.

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