The "Family" Home
This term conjures up all kinds of images of scones, jam, cream, chocolate cake, clean laundry, fresh smelling linen and preferably puppies roasting by an open fire.
Yesterday I handed someone the keys of what was arguably the last family home that I had. Well, my parent's home, my mothers home, as my dad died two decades ago.
My first family home was a 3x1 in a Perth suburb, we had a dog and a cat. Well a poodle, and an awesome cat to be honest. Spot was a cool cat, my first rehomer special. The dog a poodle who bit me, and only liked my mother. It had a pool that my dad spent endless hours cleaning, designing and maintaining when he was home. There we some happy times, but they were overshadowed. It was a house of fog, you knew there was beauty there but it was hard to see.
Then dad moved to his flat, which was only a few months, then to an aged care place. Grandma moved two years later, and her little flat was truly a home. It had the smells, the order, the freshness, the beauty, the memories. It felt like home, which made the other house feel even less like home.
It didn't seem long but then mother moved too. What a job! Always one to dodge responsibility, duty and even cleanliness, I spent hours with my tiny sons cleaning, sorting and packing that house. I was so angry! I just felt like it was just all not my problem, but there it wa again. My problem. A smaller place a long way away then became the container of family memorabilia, but not my home in any way. Another short term, and it all moved again. The next time, I avoided it all, and delegated it to my son as I didn't want to face it,
Spiral downwards a decade, and here we are again. Sorting, cleaning, tip runs, charity shop runs, culling, cleaning, and cleaning. Another dodge of responsibility, duty and this time due to age and ill health which we meant to make me feel better about it. It really didn't!
And so, with the amazing support of husband and son, the place is clean, the memories binned, tipped, recycled and removed finally from my life, a few bits and bobs have found their way to my house for posterity. The bits that mean something to me, often those that belonged to my grandparents and I hope my sons will pick up the songlines and carry the history forwards.
I have seen so many feel so sad when the so called family home is no longer there. When their memories have been displaced and removed from their location. Yesterday I handed a man the keys at a supermarket checkout. Emotion? Nil. Relief aplenty.
Today I feel slightly light hearted and happy. I have culled the family home from my life, the place where I suffered stress, irritable bowel syndrome, pain both emotional and physical, and didn't want to be in. It is gone. And I am fine. Free at last.
Upward and onward!
Yesterday I handed someone the keys of what was arguably the last family home that I had. Well, my parent's home, my mothers home, as my dad died two decades ago.
My first family home was a 3x1 in a Perth suburb, we had a dog and a cat. Well a poodle, and an awesome cat to be honest. Spot was a cool cat, my first rehomer special. The dog a poodle who bit me, and only liked my mother. It had a pool that my dad spent endless hours cleaning, designing and maintaining when he was home. There we some happy times, but they were overshadowed. It was a house of fog, you knew there was beauty there but it was hard to see.
Then dad moved to his flat, which was only a few months, then to an aged care place. Grandma moved two years later, and her little flat was truly a home. It had the smells, the order, the freshness, the beauty, the memories. It felt like home, which made the other house feel even less like home.
It didn't seem long but then mother moved too. What a job! Always one to dodge responsibility, duty and even cleanliness, I spent hours with my tiny sons cleaning, sorting and packing that house. I was so angry! I just felt like it was just all not my problem, but there it wa again. My problem. A smaller place a long way away then became the container of family memorabilia, but not my home in any way. Another short term, and it all moved again. The next time, I avoided it all, and delegated it to my son as I didn't want to face it,
Spiral downwards a decade, and here we are again. Sorting, cleaning, tip runs, charity shop runs, culling, cleaning, and cleaning. Another dodge of responsibility, duty and this time due to age and ill health which we meant to make me feel better about it. It really didn't!
And so, with the amazing support of husband and son, the place is clean, the memories binned, tipped, recycled and removed finally from my life, a few bits and bobs have found their way to my house for posterity. The bits that mean something to me, often those that belonged to my grandparents and I hope my sons will pick up the songlines and carry the history forwards.
I have seen so many feel so sad when the so called family home is no longer there. When their memories have been displaced and removed from their location. Yesterday I handed a man the keys at a supermarket checkout. Emotion? Nil. Relief aplenty.
Today I feel slightly light hearted and happy. I have culled the family home from my life, the place where I suffered stress, irritable bowel syndrome, pain both emotional and physical, and didn't want to be in. It is gone. And I am fine. Free at last.
Upward and onward!
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