I've lived in two houses my entire life — my childhood home and the one I live in now. Let's just say I like to put down roots. Deep, solid roots. A few weeks ago, my childhood home went up for sale again, and seeing the pictures online stirred up a tonne of memories. The inside of the house looks nothing like it did when I lived there, but the innate familiarity of it all made me incredibly nostalgic.
I loved that house. I love that I still remember every little nook, cranny, and hiding spot. I love how I still get a tingle of creepiness when I think of having to go down to the basement — to the deep, dark, cobweb-filled corner by the old oil furnace — to retrieve a jar of homemade pickles from the shelf.
Or how when I really wanted to hide, I would sneak down to the basement and crawl behind the pieces of wood, disappearing into the open space under the stairs. I never usually stayed there that long because it was horribly damp and smelled like old hockey equipment.
The family room wasn't just any old family room — it was where I took the stage to perform my "Shows" for my adoring fans, which were really just my parents and the dog and maybe a few of my siblings if my parents told them they had to come at least for the first set. I sang and danced my little heart out to the best of Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, and Side A of K-Tel's "Goofy Greats." An encore (and trust me, there was ALWAYS an encore) of "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog" usually brought down the house.
The fireplace was where Santa left behind a piece of his red pants, and where I'd stand and sing at the top of my lungs just to annoy whoever was in the room trying to watch television. Behind the couch is where I'd make gigantic forts with the help of my brother, and where my dad, being "Gentle Ben" the bear, would fall asleep after carting me around the room on his back. My banna (blanket) was the softest saddle ever.
One of my favourite rooms was my mom's old sewing room. As a dressmaker and seamstress, she was a home-based entrepreneur before the concept was cool, and as a toddler I'd sit on the floor playing with my toys while her customers would come and go. Let me just say, the first time I saw a woman in nylons without any underwear underneath was quite shocking and a tad traumatic for my little self. Apparently personal grooming wasn't a huge thing in the 1970s. (I'm looking at you, Mrs. L.)
For probably the first nine or ten years of my life, my sister and I shared a bedroom and even slept in the same ¾-sized bed for much of that time. I have a lot to say about that, but I'm going to defer to a future post when I've had a chance to collect my thoughts and drink a few glasses of wine.
When my oldest brother got married and moved out, I finally got my own room. It was glorious. I could move the furniture around as much as I wanted and put whatever posters or drawings I wanted on the walls. I didn't have to ask; I didn't have to compromise. It was just me and my posse of stuffed animals who magically came to life at a moment's notice. "Teddy" was my best friend, my main guy, and my partner in crime. Every adventure I ever had, I was the Captain and Teddy — and Banna, for that matter — were my First Mates.
I would pretend my bed was a ship and that a great storm had descended upon us and everyone had been tossed overboard into the raging sea. (While I was pretending to be the raging storm, I would chuck all my stuffed animals from the bed onto the hardwood floor. The details of the story matter.) Then Teddy and I would dive from the boat into the water and swim around, saving each and every shipmate — one at a time.
One at a time I would dive, and one at a time I would save them, swimming them back to my boat and wrapping them in Banna to ward off the hypothermia that was bound to set in. I cannot count how many times over the years I SAVED THEIR LIVES. I was a goddamn hero. Over and over and over.
This is the house where I became me. Within these walls I found the safety to express myself and be the creative, whimsical kid that I was. I rarely showed that side of me in public, but those walls were a fortress of love, acceptance, and non-judgement — well, I'm sure my siblings had their opinions...
I felt safe. I felt secure. I was protected. I was blessed with many things a lot of kids never experience. Stability. Unconditional love. Balance. Those walls and the people who lived within them were the most important people in my life.
Different walls may surround me now, but the ones of my childhood home will always be the ones that resonate the most. They were the ones that built the foundation. They were the ones that taught me those initial life lessons. They were the ones that let me fully open my heart and learn how to love and accept love. If those walls could talk, they would tell some funny, funny stories.
Thing is, they do talk. Every holiday. Every time our family gets together for anything. Because it really isn't about the walls — it's about the love and life we built within them as a family. That's where the memories are. That's where the love and the respect live.
I love the house I live in right now. I love everything about it — the backyard, my home office and studio. I love that the floor creaks in the spot I always step on before I crawl into bed. I love that I've been able to strip it down to the core and rebuild it, just as I've had to do with my own heart these past few years.
A house really is an awesome metaphor for you and the way you live your life. If it has good bones, then it can survive just about anything. You might change out the wallpaper or knock out some walls, windows, and doors, but if you have that solid foundation, then you have the makings of something special.
But Trish, I don't have any foundation at all! I don't have a house! I don't have any walls! I hear you all screaming at me. Don't worry, I've got you covered.
The thing about houses, and lives, is that they can be built and re-built. Over and over again. As many times as you need to rebuild them. I'm not saying it isn't a tonne of work or that there will never be setbacks or unforeseen challenges. Of course there will be. That's just a part of the building process.
The key is to just stick with it. Persevere. Gut it out. Clear out all the destruction and demolition and build that house from the ground up. Don't wait for the neighbours to give you the okay — you don't need their permission or their validation.
Start building today with the plans you've made. Not someone else's plans — your plans. Your hopes, your dreams. Do it for you. Have the strength. Find the courage. You've got this!
And if you're struggling, or you've fallen into the raging sea, send out an S.O.S. and Teddy and I will be on our way.