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My Mother's House


Coming home to familiarity is a gift I hold close to Heart. My mother's hand is creative, nothing is for not, everything has a place: The glass sugar bowl in the cupboard on the bottom shelf to the right, the curtain made of hand brooms above the kitchen sink, the wound-up clock ticking so loudly that I can hear it at night in my bedroom (such an old friend), the old photos such as the one of my Great Grand-Father, my Grandparent's wedding portrait, my niece's and nephew's baby photos framed on the wall...

These bits and pieces cause a rush of well being, connecting me to my childhood the moment I walk in.

I am grateful that things do not change.





The kitchen is the center of the House, next to the back door which has been the front door to those who know us.

A few million cookies have been made at that counter. In the fridge there is a pink almond-rocco can that my mother fills steadily, rarely is it empty.

Snickerdoodles, chocolate chips, peanut butter, oatmeal, chocolate mounds...





When a happy home has been in the same place for over fifty years there is something sacred, something sweet, something beyond words that maybe can only be known by those who have experienced the same thing:

Life's moments small, silly, serious, tearful, enduring...

We moved to this home when I was five. 

A cabin that was slowly enlarged.


Those bricks, one by one were collected when our old town was sadly knocked down. My mother scrapped the old mortar off each one of them.




My mother love's a country look.




She stained that ceiling by herself when I was fourteen.




A simple home with a big heart and soul.







 Home. Hearth. Happiness. 

Well being.


Tell me about your childhood home?


This post first appeared on Tongue In Cheek, please read the originial post: here

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My Mother's House


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