Dave and I spent most of the month of June helping Mom move out of the house that she and Dad bought back in 1963 when I was three years old. It’s the house I grew up in, the house Dad remodeled over the years, putting so much of his heart into, the house we loved in and fought in and made up in, the house that was our home for more than 50 years. Dad left us in 2006, so isn’t here for this next step in Mom’s life, the step where strangers move in to our house, because we have sold it, and moved on (strangers, but a young couple with a three-year-old daughter—kismet?). It’s a very strange thing. I haven’t lived full time in that house since I was 18 years old, and stopped living there even part time a few years later. But Mom has lived there most of her life. It’s been… well, it’s been gut wrenching. No bones about it.
For several months now I’ve wanted to blog about the home that isn’t ours any more, growing up there, living there, knowing where my roots were, knowing my parents were still there, even when I was far away. Every time I try I get stuck, sometimes cry, then give it up. Finally I realized that photographs were going to have to paint this picture for me, and that a slideshow was the way to go. These 25 images will display in a random order, because… well, because that’s how I think of them: randomly. I wish I had more than one old photo in the group, but if I want to release this blog post today, which I do, then the one will have to suffice. It’s a good one, though. You’ll know it when you see it. It’s a photograph that my uncle took not long after we moved into the house. I was three, and was sitting on Dad’s knee, while we both looked out the living room window into the front yard. The rest of the photographs I took either in January or June of this year.